


His Dark Beauty

by Wordsmith_Storyweaver



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 28
Words: 129,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsmith_Storyweaver/pseuds/Wordsmith_Storyweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Initially inspired by the first behind the scenes pictures of 3.21 and 3.22.<br/>Emma Shepherd has worked and managed her family's farm alone since the deaths of her parents, fending off would-be suitors and land-hungry competition. A chance meeting with a young girl in the marketplace leads to an audience with Prince Killian... and the opportunity of a fairytale lifetime!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read His Dark Beauty! This story was initially inspired by the early looks we got at Emma and Killian’s costumes for 3.21 and 3.22. I am not affiliated with ABC/Disney and have no rights to characters and names from OUAT. For clarification purposes, the months of the year are as follows: Primor (Jan.), Cordus (Feb.), Tertia (Mar.), Quartus (Apr.), Qunitus (May), Sextar (Jun.), Septimor (Jul.), Octavus (Aug.), Nona (Sept.), Decumar (Oct.), Undecimus (Nov.), Uncia (Dec.). [Originally posted on FFN.]  
> Also, Regis F. is short for Regis Filius, a Latin phrase that translates as Prince. I chose this translation as it more closely resembles the affectation common royalty in Renaissance Europe (i.e., Henry VIII signing is name as Henricus Rex). The time period and country are naturally fictitious, but are a bit of a cross between Renaissance France and pre-Industrial England.

Emma Shepherd coughs as yet another carriage rolls along the king’s road, kicking up dirt and dead leaves. When she’d set out from her cottage well before dawn, her cloak had been a bright blue and her hair freshly washed; now both are likely to end the day liberally powdered with fine dust, and she thanks her stars that she remembered a covering cloth for her basket. The nearest village boasts a decent sized market, and Emma has needed to go and fetch fresh staples for a week.

Ever since her parents passed away several years ago, she’s managed to keep her small farm running and her even smaller herd of sheep fed—a fact that fills her with a great deal of pride. Emma had not only been reeling from her loss, but had been forced to endure proposal after proposal from every witless farmer and goatherd from miles around. Some wanted her lands, some wanted her herd, and almost all of them wanted to get them by marrying her.

The thought that she didn’t need a single one of them had never crossed their minds, and her flat refusals had shocked more than a few. So, it’s with an extra little bounce in her step that she walks straight through the narrowing road and crowding houses to either side, head held high and face bearing a smile. Among the many lessons passed down to her by her father, it’s that there’s no shame in feeling pride so long as it has been well earned. Nearing the first of the stalls, she slips the carry-sack out of her basket, currently filled with fresh eggs, and begins her shopping day at the miller’s for flour.

As the sun climbs higher, her pack starts to get a little heavier and her basket a little lighter. Those items she can trade for, she does, and those she can’t, she pays in coin. Close to noon time, Emma’s purchases nearly complete, she wanders nearer to the actual shops and notices a girl prancing exuberantly ahead of a more sedately moving older woman. Not much older than six or so, the dark-haired child chatters excitedly about first one thing and then another—her attention obviously as distracted as transfixed by the various luxuries on display.

The woman is far too old to be the child’s mother, so perhaps a grandmother or a maiden aunt helping to care for her young relative. In either case, there’s no mistaking the genuine affection between them. Emma sees the granny smile and hears her answer each question fondly, and it reminds her of how she was as a child and how Snow would always gently and patiently respond. Her heart aches for her mother, as it always will, but she soon forgets the girl in her haste to finish her shopping.

It’s when she leaves the apothecary after having purchased some soaps and oils that it happens. She squints her eyes and holds her hand up to block the sun as she comes out into the noon-time light. In the middle of the street, raven curls twist and bob on the breeze as the child dances in a circle. She’s caught up in some nursery-song she’s humming to herself, her fine woolen skirt held daintily between thumb and index finger while she twirls. Emma hears the nearby scream of a horse and the clatter of hooves as a man is thrown and his mount frees himself. The stallion bucks once and lunges, swiftly galloping down the street, directly toward the young girl.

Emma doesn’t think—she just reacts, dropping her carry-sack and basket. She has one second to pray that she isn’t too late before the soft, small body is wrapped in her arms, and together they tumble into the small stoop of the baker’s shop. She does her best to turn her body and take the brunt of the fall, arse landing painfully on the stones and back colliding with the wall. She dimly hears a woman shrieking when she sets the little girl on her feet. Wide, bright blue eyes stare at her in shocked awe, and tiny hands touch her face and hair. “You’re the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen! And you saved me! Are you a fairy godmother?”

Everyone catches up to them then; the girl is bundled up in the arms of her sobbing granny and a well-dressed townsman helps Emma to her feet. He also managed to retrieve her sack and basket, both of which look much worse for wear, but she thanks him for coming to her aid. She brushes her dress and cloak off as best she can, noting sadly that the latter is torn and that now she’ll need to make stop at the spinner’s to purchase a patch and some thread to mend it.

Emma makes to leave when the man who helped her shushes the granny and points to her. The older woman, clearly flustered and upset, presses a hand to her mouth and then sweeps Emma into a bone-crunching hug. “Oh, bless you, my dear! I swear I only looked away for a second! You saved our precious Sophia! Bless you!”

“It was what anyone would have done. Is she truly alright?” Emma winces slightly when the other woman finally releases her, not used to physical contact or having anyone make a fuss over her. Not to mention that the recent painful encounter with the ground and a solid wall has caused her quite a lot of discomfort.

“Not a scratch on her, thanks to you!” More townspeople have gathered around by this point, so Emma seizes the chance to slip away quietly into and around the crowd. Because now, a second trip to the apothecary is in order—this time for some herbs and a healing salve for the bruises she’ll be sporting come tonight—and she’d rather see her cottage before nightfall if at all possible. She doesn’t notice that the townsman who set her on her feet was actually a servant wearing his master’s livery, nor does she hear him ask the folk in the crowd who the little girl’s savior was and where she could be found later on.

* * *

 

"Papa! Papa! You’ll never guess what I saw today! Papa!"

Killian marks his spot in the ledger with a ribbon, sighing in exasperation and relief. Having Francine take Sophia out to the village had been a besotted father’s desperate attempt to get some of the estate business finished so that he could devote a whole evening to some needed reading and relaxation. Yet he would far rather spend time with his rambunctious child instead of poring over dull accounts; so when his daughter stumbles into the library, launching herself into his arms, he catches her easily and envelops her in a fierce embrace. A tightness around his chest eases, one that he hadn’t realized was there until she’d bounded into view. It’s been over three years since he lost his beloved wife, Milah, but the bittersweet ache has not dulled, nor has his consuming love for their child diminished by one iota.

“What did you see, my little love? Were there trolls and goblins planning to gobble such a sweet morsel up?” Sophia giggles when he tickles his beard against her chin and pretends to nibble on her shoulder. Lately, she’s taken to asking for bedtime stories about daring knights and their heroic quests as opposed to the tamer stories of her earlier years.

“Noooo, silly Papa! Trolls live under bridges, and goblins can’t come out with the sunshine!” She crooks her finger, beckoning him closer. Telling secrets in not-precisely-whispers has also become a new favorite pastime. “I saw a fairy godmother!”

"You did?" He tries to hide his smile when Sophia nods enthusiastically, patting his cheek with her little hand. The gesture reminds him emphatically of his departed wife and it grieves him all the more knowing that his daughter never had the chance to learn that touch by example; Sophia had been all of nine months when the sea had taken her mother, so the memory of that touch must be buried so deep as to be instinctual, a primal and unconscious thing.

"She was the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen, Papa. Her hair was sunshiny and glowy, and her eyes looked like the willow leaves by the pond. Her wings were blue, and she flew in and scooped me up so fast! She threw me into the baker’s shop, but then I landed on her."

He stiffens, his eyes immediately searching for Francine, but the nanny waiting by the library door only shakes her head. Either Sophia hasn’t given him the whole story, or Francine has no desire to be the one to share the tale with her employer. Or quite probably both. "Let’s go play with your new doll. What do you say, Sophie?"

The little girl groans a bit at the nickname, but dutifully and loudly kisses Killian’s cheek before squirming to be put down. “For the last time, _Francie_ , it’s Sophia. So-Fee-Uh. Not So-Fee. That’s not as pretty as _my_ name.”

He stares at the door, shaking his head with a smile on his face. Only a child who has never wanted for love could so casually dismiss a traumatic event, belief in the happy serendipity of a benign universe still intact. The footman he had sent with Sophia and Francine stands in the doorway just outside the library waiting to catch his attention. Killian beckons him forward and returns to his seat at his desk. "James, what happened? Precisely."

"Sophia was dancing in the street completely oblivious to everything around her, Sir. You know how she is. She’d started in after seeing the young miss she mentioned, talking about going to see a fairy ring or up to firefly hill." A smile tugs at the corner of James’ mouth, the servant clearly as beguiled by Sophia’s playful antics as everyone else in his household. "A rider, what had no business riding the animal he was on, lost control of his horse. The stallion bucked him off and started running, and it would have run Sophia right over if this fairy woman hadn’t gotten her out of the way. She dashed across the street to catch the child in her arms, and kept her safe as you please from a nasty tumble against the baker’s shop."

"A fairy woman? Surely you know better than to believe such tales, James."

"Aye, but it was just as curious as Sophia painted it. Just a slip of a young miss, really, but she made certain that the child was safe. I asked, but couldn’t get her name from her, Sir. I pointed her out to Francine, who was weeping away and ever so grateful. But then once I looked away, she’d given us the slip, Highness. I asked around, you know, the folks what had seen the accident. They say, if it’s who they think, it’s the lass what’s been running her father and mother’s farm all by her lonesome. Don’t live too far from here."

Killian listens to his footman’s account, feeling his curiosity begin to stir. What manner of person performs such a momentous service to the royal family, and then vanishes into thin air? "Confirm your suspicions, and if they are wrong, find the right girl. I want to show her my gratitude for saving my daughter."

* * *

 

 The next day begins as usual, opening the barn doors to let the sheep out into the pasture and the chicken into the yard to scrounge for scraps and worms. Only then does she allow her hands to dig into the rich soil, carefully clearing her garden patch of troublesome weeds and planting late summer seed. The earth feels cool and moist, while the air is warmed by the sun. Peaceful moments like these help her feel connected to life, like she’s a part of some grander whole than she could ever imagine; remembering these precious minutes and hours helps to keep the dark and loneliness at bay every night. But her normal solitude is too swiftly broken by the clatter of a horse’s hooves and the scared bleating of the flock at the noise.

She manages to rise with little difficulty, although her still sore back protests the change in position, and begins to walk toward the fence that surrounds the plot and keeps the animals out. She wipes her hands on her skirt before lifting them to her face to shade her eyes. She can’t see the rider yet, but she can hardly imagine just what errand would bring anyone out here—it’s been well over a year since she sent the last idiot suitor packing, and at the point of a blade no less.

Yet the small track that leads from the king’s road to her farm seldom sees use from anyone other than herself, so Emma makes it her business to know about every person who passes through the lane. By the time she reaches the gate, a dappled gray stallion comes into view carrying a man in livery, clearly displaying a special courier’s badge. She frowns and bites her lower lip, for she has not seen the like since the king’s messenger came informing her father David that he had been called to serve in the army, so many years ago. In her experience, such heralds only appear with bad news, demanding more taxes or a greater share of her herd and crops—all for the glory and prosperity of the kingdom, no doubt.

The horse slows and halts in front of her, yet the rider does not dismount. He reaches into his satchel and draws out a rolled bit of parchment. “Are you Emma Shepherd?”

“I am. How can I help you?”

The courier hands the scroll down to her, eyes never once leaving her face. “I’ve a message from his royal highness, Prince Killian. I have been instructed to ensure that you read it, and then return to my master with your answer.”

Emma takes the parchment, but looks at the rider confusedly. Prince Killian? Last she heard or cared to listen to the gossips in the village, their king was named William and had no children. And what would a prince want with her anyway? Lips set in a firm line, she removes the ribbon and unfurls the paper.

_Dear Miss Shepherd,_

_You do not know me, but I am afraid I find myself deeply in your debt. Yesterday, you rescued a young child from a spooked horse in the market, by all accounts vanishing into thin air after seeing her safe and reunited with her nanny and servants. That little girl was my beloved daughter and only child, Sophia. I simply must meet the person who so carelessly risked her own health and safety for that of a perfect stranger and then thought nothing of a reward or recognition of the deed, for such a kind and heroic soul truly must be worth knowing. I ask that you come tomorrow to my manor so that I and my daughter may thank you properly. My courier awaits your reply and will inform me of it upon his return to me._

_Your humblest servant,_

_Killian Regis F._

She breathes deeply, desperately attempting to calm the panic and fear racing through her body. Even one day spent away from her home remains a prospect fraught with risks, for with no servants to stand guard and no lock that cannot be broken Emma can lose all she has in the world in just a few short hours. A woman who refuses to marry and chooses to stay independent attracts enough trouble and ridicule as it is, but one who prospers and whose farm thrives becomes an object of fear and a magnet for enemies. Should it be discovered by those who wish her ill that she will be away, she might find nothing worth coming back home to when she returns.

Yet no matter the polite words or the courteous phrases, the letter is a summons—one she cannot afford to ignore. She cannot disobey the implied order, compelling her to go and await this prince’s pleasure. She may be comfortable and independent, harming none out here on her land, yet the strange caprice and fleeting favor of princes cannot be denied or lightly brushed aside. But she lets none of these thoughts show on her face as she dips a small curtsy. “Please inform his highness that I will be honored to go and speak with him on the morrow.”

* * *

 

She leaves at dawn so that she will arrive well before the noon hour, grateful once again to her father’s careful education that she remembered the location of the local manor which must now serve as the prince’s home. Before her mother’s death, the large estate had been run only by servants and the prince’s tenants while the family had lived at court in the capitol, no doubt. Since then, Emma hasn’t exactly had the time or desire to keep up to date on the local happenings and so missed the news and attendant drama of the lord of the manor’s return.

She also has never had any use for fancy gowns before today, so last night she had carefully opened the cedar wardrobe where her mother’s nicer dresses were kept as mementos. Despite the sharp, yet clean smell of the wood, Emma had caught the ghost of the lavender oil that Snow had loved to wear and had proceeded to cry for the first time in almost seven years. Her mother hadn’t wanted to live, not after losing her beloved David to a vicious battle of the Ogres’ Wars. The light and joy that had brightened and gilded all of Emma’s childhood memories began to fade slowly out of the woman who gave her life with each passing season. When the god of Death had finally come for Snow four years after the news of her husband’s death, it had been a tender mercy.

Emma tries to clear the lingering fog of grief and maudlin thoughts from her mind, so contrary to the warm, spring sunshine and mellow breeze of the present morning. She looks down at the dress she chose, wishing once more that she either had greater need for the fine silks and velvets locked in the cedar wardrobe or that no such occasion had occurred to make her open the damn thing in the first place. While her parents had adored her and always said that she was more beautiful than Snow had ever been, Emma had been more realistic about her form and face. She was pretty, certainly, but hardly fairest in all the land.

Yet wearing the bright, mossy color and feeling the slip of the luxurious fabric against her skin makes her feel confident in an entirely unexpected way. If she had the time and money and disposition to be idle, she knows that she could make others believe that she was beautiful—she has known the apothecary long enough to know all about the creams, oils, lotions, and cosmetics that the gentry and the doxies use to make their outsides more appealing. If she were so inclined, she could marry a rich, handsome man who would take care of the farm and all her trouble, and who would be more than happy to watch her spend his money on cosmetics and silks and assorted baubles that would drive him mad with lust for her. Although, to be sure, the world being the cruel and spiteful place that it is, she imagines all handsome men to be poor and ugly men to be rich.

Her own mother had taken the pains to teach her about the medicinal as well as the beautifying properties of the herbs and flowers to be found in their garden or out in the wild, uncultivated areas of their farm, and indeed, Emma misses the days where they distilled more than just the lavender and rosemary oils used in everyday bathing; but with all the work to be done and only herself to accomplish it, anything not strictly functional had mostly fallen to the way side. Shaking her head, Emma laughs at herself, once again carefully lifting her silken skirts in both hands to keep the hemline free of as much mud and dirt as possible. She’s never truly been tempted to trade her life of honest, hard work for one of useless, indolent pleasure, and she highly doubts that she’ll ever be so inclined to spend idle days devoted solely to the gratification of a man’s senses and needs. Marriage to anyone would mean a loss of freedom, regardless of the gilding or strict utility of the bars of her cage; she would rather beg for her bread that sign over the rights to her father’s lands in exchange for the fragile security of a husband’s ring.

Thankfully, the manor is not far, and Emma is well acquainted enough with the land to not require all of her attention in order to make her journey. She spares a thought for her borrowed finery and decides upon taking a short-cut across the park and lawn, so that she need not walk along the harsh gravel avenue leading up to the house. She also will not be compelled to hop over any ditches or hedges that might damage her mother’s beautiful dress. On account of her low station, she assumed that she would not expected to wear fine silken slippers such as her mother once wore, though for a fleeting moment she wishes that her footwear matched her clothing; however, sturdy boots of soft leather have always served her just fine, and in any case Snow’s feet had been far daintier than Emma’s have been in years.

As she’s crossing the lawn and the house finally comes into view, Emma realizes that in all the years of seeing her mother’s fancy finery in the wardrobe she’s never questioned just why a simple farmer’s wife would ever own such things. Nothing about their life had ever required such fripperies as far as she can remember and no one to appreciate them save her father and herself. But once her path connects with the gravel avenue and she gets her first full sight of the manor, the long-forgotten mysteries of her parents slip from her thoughts once more.

While others would see dark grey stone teeming with growing moss and ivy vines needing to be cleared, Emma sees a vast abode, weighed down by its lofty inhabitants and a sense of ancient splendor. While clearly no castle, two towers rise up on the corners that she can see, making her feel both small and observed. Indeed, the manor is practically crumbling from years of neglect, yet to plain, honest eyes it nonetheless appears grand and palatial.

Emma carefully navigates the steps, slightly intrigued at the likely magnificence of a home that requires so many stairs just to reach the front door. She’s just about to reach up and knock when she hears hooves clattering on the gravel drive behind her and fleetingly thinks that perhaps the attendant noise of horses might somehow be the gods’ way of alerting her to prophetic and monumental tidings. She turns toward the sound instinctively—always alert to potential danger—and sees the most astoundingly matched rider and steed.

The horse’s coat is a glossy, coal black that is practically the same as the gentleman’s hair. Indeed, this must be the Prince, for she recognizes the same raven locks and piercingly blue eyes that belong to the little girl from the market. Despite the dark beard, she also recognizes the child’s chin in the father’s face, yet those are all that Prince Killian seems to have passed down to his daughter.

After a startled moment spent openly staring at one another, Emma remembers her manners and dips into a low curtsy. “Your highness.”

She hears him dismount from his horse and have a quick word with the servant who takes the animal away, but she does not look up or allow herself to rise. She waits patiently while dusty black boots take the stairs two at a time before halting just within her line of sight. “Miss Shepherd, I presume.”

His voice is that rare, magical combination—melodic, low, and soft—a distinctly masculine tone that hints at an enjoyment of music and song. For some reason, the sound of her name coming from his throat and past his lips causes her to shiver uncontrollably. “Indeed, your highness.”

A gloved hand reaches out and touches her chin, lifting so that she must look up. She sees full, sensual lips that are reddened from the wind and from the occasional swipe of his tongue. His angular jaw is softened by a black beard and stubble, and across one of his high cheekbones is an old scar. His nose fits his face—neither too large, nor hooked enough to be considered aquiline. But it is the eyes that capture, that beguile and bewitch; Emma has never seen the ocean, yet his eyes are the color of the vast stretches of water she’s only seen in stories and her imagination. She could drown herself in those eyes and count everything else well lost.

He grins, not unkindly, but with a sense that he has heard her thoughts directly from her mind or read them in her eyes. Emma straightens up, flicking her head to the side firmly so that he is no longer touching her. She takes a step back and looks back down at his boots. “You summoned me, your highness, and so, here I am.”

“Indeed, I did. Please, come in, and be welcome to Thistledown Hall.”


	2. Chapter 2

Since Killian can remember he has used exercise of all varieties, but fencing and horseback riding in particular, to purge his demons and banish the nightmares that plague him. His mother’s death to the same illness that struck him when he was just a small boy and his father’s slow, bitter descent into madness had left his older brother Liam to run the kingdom and the younger prince with no suitable companion in grief.

This morning he woke as usual—covered in cold sweat amid twisted, rumpled sheets. The nightmare never changes, never fades in its cruel clarity. A ship of the line carrying a precious cargo caught in a terrifying storm, the blackest and wildest in living memory. Cold, dark water lit only by flashes of lightning while it wrapped its beguiling arms around captain, passengers, and crew. For many months, he had put on a good face, pretended to believe that the _Princess’ Joy_ would be found in no time at all; he’d allowed his brother to send out other ships and shore parties while Killian closed himself in the nursery with Sophia and her calm assurance that Mama would be home soon.

Explaining to his two year old the delicate balance between life and death remains the most devastatingly painful lesson he’s ever had to teach. The fact that this particular nightmare haunts him the day after he so nearly lost their daughter… Let’s just say that he is unsurprised by the crippling icy-chill of terror that twines along his spine and the urge to recklessly throw himself into some sort of action. None on his estate could possibly hope to best him with swords, so a bracing gallop on his favorite stallion it is.

The sun is barely above the horizon when he dresses himself—black boots, soft gray suede trousers, black waistcoat, and a simple gray jacket over a white linen shirt—and sends his valet off to the stables to ensure that his horse is saddled. If the servants make a note of his relative dishabille, they certainly do not comment on it in his hearing. He’s donning his black suede riding gloves when Triton is brought out by one of the grooms; James accompanies the lad, tugging distractedly at his own coat while they approach their master. “Pardon the early intrusion, highness, but I did want to remind you that the Shepherd girl promised she would come today. Don’t see as how she’ll manage two days away so close together, but folk like her tend to be prompt when they make a promise.”

“James, it is far too early for your round-about prattling. Speak plainly, man.” The older servant looks down at his boots and clasps his hands behind his back at the rebuke, acutely conscious of the time where such surliness was mitigated by a genuine warmth and kindness.

“Very well, highness, since you have given leave. From what all I’ve heard, the girl has no one at all in the world except herself, sir. She tends her herd and her farm all on her lonesome, which means no servant to help with the chores and the heavy lifting. You asking to see her, making her come to you, I don’t agree with it, sir. Every moment spent away from her land and her home is a moment where she can’t protect and care for what’s hers. And while she’s done her level best to hold her own, there’s some who’ve taken exception to that and would gladly see her come to ruin. Best to keep in mind when you go about commanding people that they have their own troubles to worry about. Highness.”

If Killian hadn’t been drilled by the greatest orators and rhetoricians of the day, he might have been in danger of looking like a gape-mouthed fish on a line. In all his years of service, nothing had ever prompted such an impassioned or eloquent speech out of James and certainly not one so liberally peppered with disapproval and disappointment. It certainly gave his master quite a lot to contemplate during his morning exercise.

Had he truly done more harm than good in seeking this girl out to thank her? He realizes shortly that it had never occurred to him to go to her—whether a favor was being requested or an honor bestowed, people always came to the king or whoever their superior might be. That was simply how things were done. Convinced he had the right of it and that his servant was hopelessly misguided—although, indeed the man’s error stemmed from an overly zealous sense of gallantry—he continues his ride without another thought to having inconvenienced the girl.

He allows his mind to blank, to give himself and his body fully over to maintaining his seat and letting Triton thunder across the park at will. He leans over the horse’s neck, carefully avoiding the lash of any low-hanging branches—a lesson learned as a child on his first stallion. Just as he’s preparing to spur his mount on for a final burst of speed over the last mile of the park circuit, he catches a flash of gold and green off to his left and wordlessly commands the horse to slow to a halt. Triton understands the still anxiety of his master at some unknown danger, communicated in the quiver and clench of calf and thigh muscles and the low, steady voice.

Poachers are not unheard of, but he can think of no criminal so bold as to come this close to the manor while the morning light is strengthening. He urges Triton forward, carefully walking through the undergrowth so as to make as little noise as possible. This particular stretch of the park runs very close to the lawn, so it comes as no surprise when Killian sees the south side of the house through the thinning tree line. He considers leaving the cover of the trees or turning back toward the run when a vision steps out onto the grassy hill and into view.

Though the sun has not climbed high, her curls shimmer in the light—a golden, honeyed halo around a fair face. Though not untouched by days spent laboring in daylight, her skin is creamy and only gently kissed with freckles. Her full lips match the blush high on her cheekbones in color, and her button nose points upward slightly. Such graceful features should belong on a simpering, coquettish miss draped on the arm of some court gallant; yet in her face, it is the eyes that inform Killian that she is anything but a delicate ornament. Purpose and pride dance in those eyes like a burning flame behind bottle-green stained glass. He has a feeling that those fiery jewels could burn him to his very soul.

Though an old brown cloak conceals much, he can see that the dress she wears is most certainly not her own and at least twenty-five years out of fashion. He only recognizes the date of the style because his mother’s last portrait reveals a woman modeling a similar cut to the dress—a long, simple skirt that falls straight from the beneath the bust and a scooped neckline with puffs near the shoulder and sleeves that extend to the wrist. He knows that the gown was not made for her—her obvious youth aside—because at least three inches of her boot-covered ankles can be seen and the neckline shows off much more of her breasts than is seemly. Not that you would find him complaining about the obvious bounty of nature on display.

Her hands which are currently wrapped around the edges of her cloak are not the hands of a lady of wealth and privilege, chapped and red as they are. Yet they are dainty and feminine all the same, her fingers slim and long. So many curious contradictions that leave him hungry to know more; she’s a woman of hidden depths and secrets, and he yearns to discover each and every one. He smiles—a paltry, sickly one compared to his more genuine expression of happiness and delight, but since he has had very little occasion of late to call upon even a grin, he should be forgiven the poor appearance of it. She’s clearly headed for Thistledown, chin set stubbornly and head held high as she strides across his property toward the stand of trees that line the avenue from the road, which means his thirst for knowledge will no doubt be sated shortly.

He doesn’t question the racing of his heart, for once so wrapped up in the moment, in the thrill of the challenging unknown, that he doesn’t recognize his own body’s reactions and signals. He directs Triton back to the run, then spurs his mount back into a gallop that has them whipping through the avenue and racing around to approach the front door and his enigmatic guest from the North. The instant his horse’s hooves hit the gravel, he sees the girl’s spine draw straight and rigid, her raised hand poised in a fist at the level of her eye prepared to knock.

He had thought her a vision before when spied through shadowy woods; now, under the warm glow of sunlight, her beauty steals his breath and his wits. His blood, already up from his ride, flows directly to his cock—hard and aching and spectacularly brought to life unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. The stab of primal need, the desire to take and possess, reverberates through his whole being in one painful, invigorating instant. He’s enthralled, captured under the fierce scrutiny of those agate eyes, wanting more than anything to be the sole object of that gaze for all time. But then she breaks the spell with her voice.

“Your highness.” He’s never hated his title more than this moment, in which her breathy, enchanting tone made the honorific sound hollow, vain, and worthless. Only his name should be treated to those decadent, luxurious sounds, preferably uttered under the influence of sensual need and raw passion; her lips and tongue should only form and caress whatever he directs and desires them to. The sight of her dropping into a curtsy, properly displaying her subservience to him, sends a jolt of pure white heat up his spine; the stiffness of her body and those commanding eyes, which are now hidden from his view, tell him that this is not a woman who easily bends to anyone’s will save her own. And he desperately desires to break and have her yield.

One of the stable boys skids to a halt next to Triton’s head, panting harshly thanks to the sprint he must have made to get here so quickly. Killian dismounts and mutters something about making sure the stallion is properly cooled down and cared for before dismissing the lad. The girl remains in her inflexible curtsy, face averted and downcast, waiting for his instruction and recognition. He lets the moment stretch, wondering just how long he can have her meekly submitting like this. Her position must be difficult to maintain without losing her balance or tiring her—indeed, he finds it most curious that the daughter of a farmer knows how to perform a formal court curtsy at all—yet she neither trembles nor fidgets despite the lengthening silence between them.

Unable to resist her siren’s call any longer, he ascends the stairs with more speed than grace. He stops, leaving very little room between their bodies, and can feel the heat radiating from her, beckoning him closer. Slowly, he slides his gloved fingers along her jaw to her chin and raises her face without permitting her to break the reverence. When she finally complies and looks up at him, another wild bolt of lust shoots through him; her gaze is hard, unyielding and challenging him as no subordinate or inferior should. He may be a prince of the realm, but in her unflinching eyes he is no better than she, and a part of him longs to forcibly disabuse her of that notion.

“Miss Shepherd, I presume.” Something softens when she hears his voice, when she fully meets his eyes. A strange sort of fascination and wonder passes across her features, and a blushing awareness fills her being. Whether her mind wills it or not, her body responds to his presence, to his command—heat floods through her and makes the creamy flesh of her breasts and face become flushed and rosy, makes her breath catch in her throat (and unless his keen gaze misguides him, makes her nipples harden), and surely sends an unfamiliar, tingling warmth settling between her thighs.

He also sees the confusion that crosses her face at these physical changes and sensations and cannot help but smile at her. Clearly, this chance meeting will lead to many, many discoveries for both of them; he finds himself hoping that this encounter will lead to more like it. She belatedly jerks away from his hand, as if burned, and averts her gaze to the ground beneath them. “You summoned me, your highness, and so, here I am.”

Though he hasn’t stroked her skin without the barrier of a glove yet, he finds her withdrawal from contact disconcerting and unwelcome. He gives in to the urge to touch her again, takes both of her hands and helps her to rise, though she seems quite able to have accomplished the task on her own. “Indeed I did. Please, come in and be welcome to Thistledown Hall.”

He lets go of her hand so that he can strip off his gloves and pass them to a servant. Task accomplished, he turns to take in her assessment of his home. He expected a quiet awe or overwhelmed delight in the high, dark beamed ceiling or the grey marble floors and staircase. The sense of regal permanence and ancient right should oppress her and inspire an appropriate sense of inferiority to be among those allowed to even temporarily grace the august dwelling with her presence. Yet the swords and the banners and the ornate design appear to have no effect whatsoever. Her clear, green gaze shows apathetic disdain rather than cowed timidity.

Killian finds himself even more intrigued by her lack of response, her refusal to be humbled. She seems unreal, a being out of myths and legends older than time, and he feels desperately compelled to touch her. With a flick of his wrist, he commands his servant back, taking the cloak from her shoulders himself and—helpless to stop himself—skimming his fingertips along the exposed skin of her collarbone and the arch where her neck meets her body. He watches the delicate, yet perceptible shiver that flits up her spine and observes the rising of chill bumps along her breasts. Clearly, the woman recognizes and desires the man; it remains to be seen whether Emma can be made to burn for him.

He passes the antiquated garment to his servant and takes his guest’s hand forcibly in his, wrapping it around his arm proprietarily. “I apologize for not having a formal reception ready for you. As you can see, I was just taking my morning exercise and had no idea you would arrive so early. Potts, do send up to Francine and let her know to wake and dress Sophia. And have them meet us in the library.”

 

* * *

 

 

Emma does her best to suppress the fine trembling in her limbs that started the instant she looked at him from beneath her lashes and which worsened when his bare fingers brushed against her skin. She’s never had less control over her body and its reactions than she does now, intensely aware of the prince’s every movement, his every breath. The very air around them seems charged and volatile, as it would be if a storm was racing across the horizon. When he grips her hand and secures her close to him, she bites back a gasp at the way her sex clenches and her nipples tighten painfully in response to the burning line of heat he radiates.

She’s no uneducated simpleton when it comes to matters between a man and a woman. She comprehends lust and need, though this is the first time she’s ever been caught under their influence. Indeed, her complete indifference to men in general and to the rituals of courtship in particular were part of the reason that so many suitors needed less than gentle persuasions to leave her in peace—each one presumed that he was the lone man capable of breaking through her icy calm, only to discover that _their_ darts of love were just as repellent to her as the next. Rejection and open disgust were not the predetermined, expected outcome, leaving a trail of broken pride and outraged vanity in the wake of their failed passing.

Not a single one of them, though one or two had been kinder or more handsome than this prince, had managed to cause even a whisper of sensation or longing within her. Yet this dark, brooding gentleman with turbulent, grief-stricken ocean eyes brought forth a veritable boiling cauldron of emotions and thoughts and unspoken desires through her being. All with a few pointed looks, a gentle smile, and the most innocuous of touches he kindles an unlooked for fire that both excites and terrifies her.

She knows that the manor dwarfs anything she’s ever dreamed of, yet she hardly sees any of the fine details that he could boast about. But the artwork and the suits of armor, the date of construction and the materials brought in from all across the realms, the pomp and pedigree and all the other flourishes that have gone into the reverend pile that is Thistledown Hall go unlauded by their owner and unappreciated by their guest. Instead, Emma becomes more and more keenly aware of the prince’s scrutiny, more sensitive to the physical response of her body to his critical gaze. After what seems an eternity, the prince leads her through a set of thick wooden doors into the largest single room she’s ever seen.

The library is easily greater in volume than her barn, all walls lined with bookshelves save the width of an enormous fireplace. The ceiling seems lost in the air, three stories above them—each storey has its own small balcony wrapped about it, and a metal staircase near the doors allows one to ascend to the next level. But compared to the man who finally releases his hold on her arm and helps her into a plush seat, it cannot beguile her attention. The prince keeps her hand in his, far longer than would be considered appropriate, yet she neither wants him to loosen his grip nor dare she suggest it.

Suddenly, he laughs, and her only thought is that he must be finding his amusement at her expense, giving her the courage to break his grip. Emma folds her hands in her lap and continues her silent examination of the carpeted floor. “I must say, Miss Shepherd, I find you a curiosity. You are nothing like what I expected.”

Her eyes flash with fury when they rise to meet his. “And what were you led to expect from me, your highness?”

He sits gracefully in the chair opposite her, elegantly flicking his coat tails out of the way and crossing the ankle of his right leg over his left knee. He leans his chin upon his palm, eyes riveted to her and seeming to draw every minute detail and thought from her body and mind. But she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he has unnerved her with his thorough examination. “If my daughter is to be believed, you are some good angel or fairy godmother who flitted down and danced with her for a moment. My servants certainly thought you some benevolent creature of fable, since you arrived seemingly from the ether in order to pluck a small girl from the very jaws of Death himself, only to disappear on a puff of wind.

“I see before me a beautiful young woman, one who wears dignity and grace the way other women wear skirts and corsets. And yet, if my footman and courier is to be believed, you are a hard working farmer and shepherd who has managed to hold her lands in her own right for the past four years or more; an orphan, whose father died valiantly in battle and whose mother has passed as well. Independent, strong and imperious—beholden to no one. It seems the more I hear, the less I know.”

“One should not always credit the tales that are borne to them, nor can the eyes be expected to do anything but deceive. Your highness.”

Killian smirks, amused again by the contradiction of hearing philosophy from the mouth of a peasant, regardless of how luscious and seductive said mouth is. “Curious that such sophistry finds so humble a vessel. Then perhaps you should inform me just who you are, Miss Shepherd.”

Emma spreads her hands in an open gesture. “The simplest explanation is often truest. I am indeed a farmer and a shepherd, raised by parents who loved each other deeply and loved their only child as well. My father was called to the front and died in the war when I was 13, and my mother died of a broken heart eight years later. I have been on my own ever since. But what I find curious, your highness, is why a prince would bother hearing tales about a peasant.”

Killian’s smile fades quickly, an intense brooding filling the silence after her question. “You have known loss and grief, Miss Shepherd. You say that your mother died of a broken heart, so you know what it is to watch someone fade into nothingness, wasting away because they cannot bear to be separated from their true love. But I tell you, Miss Shepherd, that even greater than the cruel torment of losing one’s mate is the loss of one’s child. I have been burdened with the one fate, but you saved me from the second.”

He stands abruptly, pacing in front of the fireplace. The warm glow of the fire casts his face in shadows and darkness, so that Emma can only dimly read the agony in his expression. He turns toward her again, eyes glistening with unshed tears and intensely fixed on her. “Even contemplating the fact that she could have been lost to me has tortured my waking and sleeping hours since the day before last… Why?! What possessed you to risk your life? Those who know my Sophia call her enchanting, yet you had never met her. I cannot fathom why you would hazard all for a stranger, unless death holds no power over you or life no meaning.”

She swallows, uncomfortable under his burning, implacable gaze. “I’m not sure how to explain it in a way you would understand, your highness. The world is full of evils and ills and accidents, but I was raised to believe that if one can help ease another’s burden or do anything to prevent a tragedy, then that person must do so. I have no children of my own, and yet I can understand the grief that would have descended on this house if Sophia had been hurt or killed. No one else was close enough—the rider was thrown, the horse master was unable to calm the beast or snatch his reins… I do not say this to place blame on either man.

“The fact of the matter remains, your highness. Even if there were those who would have mourned my death or injury, or even were she an orphan with no friends as I am, it would still have been the right thing to do, to try and save your daughter.”

Emma internally quails as his eyes become even more determinedly fixed on her face, more piercing as if trying to pluck her very soul from her body so that he may more closely examine it. But she refuses to let her discomfort and distress show until he lunges forward, kneeling at her feet and gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that his whole hand turns white. She lets out the softest gasp at his nearness and ferocity. His eyes continue to flicker back and forth before descending to gaze at her lips, then the long line of her throat, her breasts, her lap. She feels her steely resolve begin to melt beneath his heat, his presence, and shies the slightest bit away from him.

Her breath hitches when she senses a change in his body, an alertness that has him scenting the air. It’s only once she returns her gaze to his face that she realizes she had been devouring the lines of his thighs, the strong breadth of his chest, and all the hard planes and parts in between with her eyes. His hand shoots out between them and grasps her wrist in the vise of his fingers; the pain sends a delicious shiver down her spine, and she cannot completely contain a whimper. But instead of twisting away, her body sways toward his instinctively, searching for more. His grip becomes impossibly tight, yet she does not retreat from him. His pupils have dilated, leaving a thin ring of bright blue. Some expression of her face causes him to shudder and then slowly release his grasp one finger at a time.

The doors open noisily, and the buddle of bright energy that is Sophia dances into the room, breaking the uncanny stalemate between pauper and prince. He takes her still suspended hand and places a kiss to her knuckles before turning to address his daughter. The child bounces past her father and springs directly into Emma’s lap, startling her into the present once more. She spends most of the morning chatting with and entertaining the little girl while Killian mutely looks on, his face at times intensely brooding with the raw, passionate sensuality that had suffused it before Sophia’s interruption, at others distant and thoughtful.

As the noon hour approaches, she has done nothing more than entertain the child and so asks to be dismissed to go home. The prince absentmindedly grants her permission, despite his daughter’s pouting sadness at being parted from her fairy savior once more. Genuinely enchanted by Sophia’s spirit, Emma makes promises to return or to have the girl visit her on her farm—her father permitting, of course. By the time they reach the door and the prince presses another kiss to her knuckles and one to the inside of her wrist, their eyes locked on each other throughout, she is more than ready to run all the way to Agrabah if means avoiding that too knowing gaze. She settles for sprinting through the woods, only stopping once the door of her cottage is locked securely behind her—a flimsy, yet imminently desirable barrier between her and the unknown.

 

* * *

 

 

Killian sits in the midnight darkness of the library staring at the chair Emma Shepherd sat in several hours ago, the crackling fire doing little to dispel the brooding gloom around him. The flames certainly cannot compare to the inferno of primitive need that raged between them earlier and warmed his blood. He feels as though he has passed through a long winter and then found himself not just in springtime, but in the very center of the sun itself. He burns, hotter than a brand in a smith’s forge, and the sensation unnerves.

He had loved his wife—loves her still, and had desired her fiercely. Yet Milah had been gently-bred and raised; he had always been conscious of his duty to be temperate in his wants, because one simply did not ask for noble ladies to indulge their husband’s carnal, earthy hungers. That’s why whores were practitioners of the world’s oldest profession—to satisfy needs that were too depraved for men’s wives.

And yet this young woman, whose appearance at least is just as refined and delicate as any duke’s daughter, inspires an unslakeable lust in his body and soul. A friendless orphan who has every right to expect his kindness for the debt he owes her, to expect his gratitude for the sacrifices her family has made on behalf of his, to expect his protection as his brother’s subject… And yet he adamantly resolves to push all such moral and ethical considerations aside in a visceral compulsion to utterly dominate and possess her.

His goal and course defined, Killian springs up, knocking his glass of wine onto the carpet in his haste. He strides purposefully to his desk, whips out a sheet of paper, and composes a brief message. After sanding and sealing the missive, he rings for one of the footmen—not James—and instructs the man to deliver the message to the Shepherd farm on the morrow. Trapped now between his choice and the intervening hours until her reply, he retires for the evening and somehow manages to find a modicum of peace.


	3. Chapter 3

He prowls the halls restlessly, finding himself unable to sleep. The old house is silent, not even the night’s watchmen making a sound in their vigilant rounds. For some unknown reason, he finds himself drawn to the library. He expects no one to be there, and yet he is unsurprised to find the siren waiting for him, dressed in diaphanous silks the color of flames. There’s no fire in the hearth, yet the room is sweltering hot and dimly lit, heat a radiating from the golden-haired temptress barely concealed in the shadows.

Killian cannot resist her pull, submits to her thrall as he stalks closer and closer. Her thighs are spread wide open, one leg draped over the arm of his chair. The shameless, gluttonous lips of her sex are deep, dark pink and glistening brightly with her juices in the low light, as is her delicate, hooded pearl of flesh. Her head is thrown back in licentious display, yet her wanton, glowing green eyes pin him in place. He watches as her nipples bud and blossom under her touch, peeking through the filmy veils of fabric swathing her body—his every fantasy breathed into exceptionally lovely life and form.

Her neck arches farther back and she sighs, fingers drifting lower to fondle and tease her hungry, quivering cunt. Every sound she makes draws him closer—lures him closer to her, closer to his own raging desire for satisfaction. She whimpers as she begins to circle the swollen bundle of nerves at the top of her sex, panting breaths and slicked skin causing him to lick his lips eagerly. The scent of her arousal perfumes the air, bringing him to his knees with the fervent **_need_** to bury his tongue, his fingers, his marble-hard length in her wet, welcoming quim. He thought himself desperate for her before, but then she speaks in a low purr and he is positively undone. “Take me, my Prince. I am yours.”

Killian wakes, gasping in longing agony. His cock is absolutely rigid, a sheen of pre-come liberally beading across the head. He’s never been one to be ruled by his body’s whims, yet he cannot deny himself this urgent release. He drags his palm across the tip and crown, spreading the moisture before gripping his shaft tightly in his fist and stroking. He can feel that he’s already frantically close, so he imagines the slick heat of Emma Shepherd’s body, visualizes the way her pink tongue would flick across her lips and how he’d longed to have that mouth wrapped around him.

He sees her breasts, as they were in that too small gown and in his dream, how all that soft, smooth skin would feel sliding against his prick or underneath his own mouth. He imagines fucking her, how her pussy would flutter and clench, would milk his seed from him as he pounded into her lush confines from behind. He can practically hear the moans of pleasure, the screams, the whimpers. He has a sudden image of her kneeling on his bed, eyes covered with a blindfold and hands bound behind her back; waiting for his orders, waiting for him, waiting to be whipped into a panting, desperate lather or delighted at his will.

The last thought finishes him, orgasm practically wrenched forth from his body, his back arches off the bed and his vision dimming almost completely. Hot semen jets out in a seemingly endless stream, landing along his stomach and on the sheets as his breath comes out in harsh, yet sated grunts. If he had gone to bed with honorable thoughts and intentions, the dream and his desire of the morning would have washed them clean away.

* * *

 

After she had taken a long while to still her heart and slow her breathing, Emma had lovingly removed her mother’s dress and put it back in the cedar wardrobe. She lingered for quite some time, fingers reverently and wonderingly stroking the still supple kid-leather gloves, the satin slippers, and the velvet skirts before quickly locking the cupboard and dropping the key into the pocket of her heavy-weather coat. The time to ask her questions has long since passed, and farmer’s daughters and shepherdesses have no business wearing such fine, fancy things anyway.

She’d proceeded to throw herself into her chores for the day, thanking her stars that the garden remained neat and tidy as she had left it the day before and her animals were all penned up safely in the locked barn. Then she’d taken a perverse pleasure in sinking down to her very arms, deep into the soil to exterminate the weeds and aerate last year’s fallow plot. Her abused body had not been grateful for her additional  poor treatment of it, so she had had to make several trips back and forth from her well to get enough water for a copper-tub bath. She’d soaked in the oil-scented water until long after it had gone cold, before brushing her long hair to dry in front of the blazing fire and finally, climbing into the loft and dropping exhausted into her bed.

Though she cannot remember any dreams this morning, she awakes restless and uncomfortable. She ascribes her unusual feeling to the fact that she seldom has time for idleness and two days spent away from her normal labors have left her with a need to reclaim her usual purposefulness. She dresses quickly and heads to the barn, releasing the chickens and most of the herd, but keeping back the few unseasonably pregnant ewes to check their progress. She finishes with the last one, an older sheep which will probably need to be sterilized to save her from future complications or will not survive this final pregnancy, when she hears a stranger’s voice calling her.

A horse and his dismounted rider come around the corner of her cottage just as she exits the barn and lets the ewe out into the pasture. She groans internally, recognizing the livery as Prince Killian’s, and wonders what more could her royal neighbor possibly want with her. Emma does not however recognize the servant—a tall and handsome, yet shy lad about her age or a bit younger—who ducks his head and avoids her eye as she approaches. “Mistress Shepherd? I—I saw ye yesterday at the Hall. I—I’m supposed—I was commanded last night by his highness to give ye this letter.”

He awkwardly thrusts the parchment toward her, the folded paper still sealed, but with smudges on all the surfaces indicating repeated pensive handling. The area where her name is written in a curling script seems to have been a favored spot for the caressing of calloused, imperfectly clean hands. Not the prince then, but his messenger. Emma accepts the letter, careful not to touch the servant’s fingers as they lingeringly cling to the edges of the stationery. “I presume that you are to wait for my reply.”

He shuffles his feet, scuffing his boots against the packed earth and grass and still refusing to meet her direct gaze. “He didn’t rightly say, mistress.”

“It’s Miss, actually, but since he wanted a reply last time, I shall assume he wants one now as well. Let’s get some water for your horse and get out of the sun at least.” Emma strides around him toward the well, again, careful to avoid brushing up against him or touching him in any way. While she can appreciate that he finds her attractive and desirable, and can sympathize with his timid nature, she finds the combination of the two quite distracting, as well as off-putting, and sincerely does not wish to encourage his interest.

She shows him to the well and points out the location of the trough before heading toward her cottage and opening the letter. The contents, as she scans it, make her pick up speed—to put a greater distance between herself and the footman, who clearly knows nothing of the missive’s contents, and to find a more private and comfortable spot onto which she can sit and contemplate the enormity of the proposition placed before her.

_Let us not play games or pretend that what passed between us was anything remotely similar to proper or polite, Miss Shepherd. The instant I saw you, I was absolutely consumed with need, burned and burdened by desire as I have not experienced in an age. I know you felt the same. Did you think or hope that I didn’t notice the way your body trembled, the way your blush of wanting spread down your breasts and no doubt even further? Had my daughter not interrupted us, I would have cast aside all restraint and plunged into the delectable, moist heat waiting for me between your thighs. Would you have tried to stop me had I dared?_

_I think we both know that you would not have wanted to. Deny it all you like, but you burn for me as well, longing to be instructed in and introduced to all manner of carnal delights. And I want to take these coals and watch them become an inferno. I will master you, make you bend and submit to my control, and in return, I will give you pleasure unlike anything you could ever know. I will teach you all the ways your body can serve to give pleasure and to receive pleasure, and then I will show you even more. I will know neither rest nor peace until I have your willing, pliant body beneath me, until I bury us in the decadent and the erotic desires we were made for. You have nothing to lose and the world to gain by submission and acceptance._

The lack of signature matters little, as the penmanship precisely matches that of the previous letter he sent. Emma’s eyes search the parchment yet again, unable to process and believe what lies directly in front of her. The words unerringly call back to mind the sensations that had overwhelmed her the day before—the thoughts and the longings the Prince’s presence had inspired in her—and oh, so sweetly attempt to seduce her into accepting his proposal. She trembles again with a heretofore unknown, dangerously piercing yearning for all the sensual bliss his offer represents. Yet he speaks only of sated lusts and unfathomable pleasures, obviously ignorant or uncaring of the responsibilities and duties that circumscribe her life just as completely as his.

“M—Miss Shepherd, ma’am? Do—do you have a reply for his highness?” The footman startles Emma out of her thoughts with his stammering query, taking up much of the space and light in the small cottage by blocking the doorway.

“I will. If you please, give me a moment, and I will have a return message shortly.”

* * *

 

Killian paces alone in the library. He should have his nose buried in the various account books and ledgers for the estate, yet he has been distracted all morning, despite knowing that his messenger left immediately after breakfast. He is certain of her answer as only a royal personage can be, never truly denied anything he has ever wanted or considered his due, nor never having come across an individual who was not sinfully eager to exploit a position of such implied confidence with him. In short, his only anxiety was in expecting her affirmative and the soonest possible commencement of their liaison.

He had left the double doors open in anticipation of his servant’s arrival, thus handily beckoning the man into the room before he can knock and allowing for swifter receipt of her answer. The footman strides in confidently and places a crudely sealed bit of poor, pulpy parchment in the prince’s hand. The wax is a cheap, sulfuric yellow and smells partly of rendered animal fat—the only saving grace of the paltry thing being a tiny buttercup flower pressed into the sealing wax to help mask the odor and serve in place of a seal, no doubt.

“Did she seem pleased by the message?” His servant starts as if struck by a bolt, clearly not having expected to pay attention to such details in addition to faithfully fulfilling his stated duty. Killian internally curses the fact that he couldn’t have sent James or another equally adept servant on this particular mission. The older men, versed in the worldly ways and intrigues of court dalliances, would have known precisely what manner of missive was being sent and known to watch for clues of the addressee’s feelings and reaction to the letter, as was done when Killian sent his first, more innocent invitation to Miss Shepherd.

“Well, after I found the young Miss, she suggested I tend to your horse at first, highness, making sure he had plenty to drink for his pains. When I was done, I stood just inside the door for a bit, because she were reading your lordship’s letter and I didn’t wish to interrupt. But I did have to clear my throat twice and knock to get her attention after a few minutes—more than enough time for her to have read it, highness. Then I asked if she had a reply for your highness, and she said that she would. Then she wrote on that paper there and sealed it, and made me promise not to try and take a peek; but I told her that I’d never betray your lordship’s trust like that, but that to do so any rate would be most improper.”

The younger man beams at him after this rather long, pointless, and uninformative recitation of events, and despite his own pique, he smiles as if the boy has done well. “Thank you, Graham. That will be all.”

He closes the doors before heading back to his desk for his penknife and places the letter carefully on the blotter. He sits for a moment, just staring at it, letting the bitterly sharp edge of his desire and anticipation become keener. Finally, his impatience for satisfaction gets the better of him and he breaks the seal.

_Your Royal Highness,_

_I am overwhelmed by the amount of respect and trust in my discretion that your offer signifies, as I am also aware of the great honor with which such proposals are most often regarded in certain circles. Regardless, I cannot in good conscience accept. Your highness condescends far too much to think of me, nor—as I am certain you will conclude upon further examination of the matter—can you afford to ignore the extremity of our positions. Besides being unfit for such an exalted position as your design would create for me, I have a duty to hold my father’s lands in his name and cannot neglect that which has been entrusted to my stewardship._

_I promise that nothing you have said shall ever be uttered by me, and indeed, I have every intension of consigning your letter to the flames immediately after this reply departs._

_With sincere gratitude,_

_Emma Shepherd_

He reacts first with all-encompassing shock and enraged bluster, yet when his pricked pride manages to abate for a moment, he cannot help being impressed by the gracious audacity with which she refuses him. He finds absolutely no faults with her choice of words, deftly appealing to his vanity and social acumen while stubbornly resisting any implications of her own subservience to him. The fascinating riddle of the farmer’s daughter only increases in its complexity and enflames his desire to know more. He firmly and unequivocally convinces himself that it is not the thrill of the chase, the excitement of discovery, nor the yearning to possess that which has been denied to him which prompt him to reexamine his approach, rather than dropping the matter altogether.

* * *

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

The sun rises above the horizon, and the rooster crows his welcome, yet Emma remains tucked under the covers and unwilling to move from the warmth of her bed. She spent another night tossing and turning, her sleep disturbed by nightmares and worries that her waking mind cannot recall or assign a name to. Before her father’s death, she had never been troubled by any fear of mortality at all; her mother’s grief had been so acute that death had been welcomed as kindly spirit; since then, the only fear that has haunted her has been the loss of her home, the loss of choices and independence. Yet she knows instinctively that this looming, unseen terror of her dreams will bring more chaos and leave her more than simply bereft; she just cannot imagine what could possibly be so great as to utterly destroy her and her simple life.

She closes her eyes and turns her face so that the sunbeams breaking through the thatching fall on her, warming her skin and chasing away the shadowy anxieties of the night. Unable to ignore the prompting of her hungry stomach or her prickling conscience any longer, she tosses off the bedcovers and grabs her shift from the peg on the wall near her head. She bunches the fabric in her hand and slips it over her out-stretched arms and head, letting the rough fabric slip down her body as it wills while she backs down the ladder to the ground floor of the cottage.

She begins to hum as she slips around the ladder, reaching for the water bucket kept near the hearth. She turns around toward the door, arm holding the bucket blithely swinging backward when she freezes, completely shocked and not quite able to process what she sees for the second time in as many days. Prince Killian sits in her father’s chair, booted feet stretched out and crossed in front of him, his riding crop gently marking time along with the tune she had been humming. Emma feels the belated urge to cover herself, to press her hands over the flesh he had no doubt glimpsed bare only a few moments ago, but she resists the futile and empty gesture. As he said in his letter, pretense and false propriety are alike senseless between two people as viscerally aware of each other as they are.

“Are you always so confident in the attraction your person holds for one of the opposite sex, or is it the knowledge that your position preserves you from any attempted persecution for crimes such as breaking and entering?” If she had thought it impossible for his eyes to burn any fiercer, she is swiftly disabused of the notion as he watches her every movement when she boldly speaks and continues to stand unabashedly before him. She feels more than naked, stripped so that her very soul is exposed to his unwavering, implacable gaze. His intense expression softens slightly as his lips assume an amused smirk.

“Why do I have the feeling that that particular question is more of a stiletto’s strike than a double-edged blade, my dear? Nevertheless, such a rhetorical barb deserves an honest parry. While up to this point in my life, my rank and wealth have prevented me from ever feeling the pinch of want, it has recently been made emphatically and abundantly obvious that they count for nothing when it comes to possessing the one thing I have ever desired with such a purity of focus. And yes, I dare to ascribe ‘purity’ to the strange, single-minded yearning with which I want you. Nothing has ever been as crystalline clear to me as this. Which is why I am prepared to perform the most unusual and uncomfortable feats for you, my dear Emma.”

“I am neither yours, nor am I dear to you.”

“But you will, because despite having the moral high ground on all counts, you have yet to throw me out of your home nor have you asked me to leave; which means you can only have been interested by my offer and have denied it primarily for the personal concerns you expressed in your letter of rejection, and not because you found the prospect of submitting your body and pleasure to me loathsome. The social objections you brought up mean nothing to me, and since according to all I have heard you have done nothing to ever court the favor and good report of others, I must conclude that they truly mean nothing to you as well. And since I refuse on principle to receive any visitors to my home who are neither family nor servants of long standing, there can be no one who could possibly discover the truth of our connection and expose it to public scrutiny.”

Killian stands and prowls closer to her as he warms to his subject. His arrogant assurance—that he will own her and that she longs to be possessed—should have her reaching for her father’s battered sword, just like she did with every other man who had ever foolishly darkened her door and claimed to be offering her his love and devotion. Yet the prince does not prevaricate by speaking of tender emotions and a gentle, chivalrous yearning; his desire for her is primal, carnal, passionate, and he rebuffs every opportunity to deceitfully persuade her otherwise. The rough heat of his palm against her cheek brings her forcibly back into the present moment with him, makes her even more keenly aware of the fire dancing in the air between them and the aching response of her body to his.

“I fully empathize with the affection and care you hold for your land, for your father’s inheritance, Emma. As my father’s son, one of the first duties instilled in me was the need to protect and serve the needs of the kingdom, and what is a kingdom except the land and the people who tend it? Though you may not know it, your parents most assuredly trained you to be more than a simple shepherdess or an honest farmer’s wife; you are intelligent, skilled, and educated, and as part of our bargain, I wish you to pass your knowledge on to my daughter. She needs a teacher, now, to begin the lessons which will give her an appreciation for those who are not her equal in birth and a love for the land which shall be her birthright. Your days will be spent at Thistledown Hall, filling her head with the wisdom that will aid and guide her when she becomes queen, while carefully selected tenants will keep your farm and herd prospering.

“Your nights will be given over to my will, and my will shall ever be pleasure. Your body, Emma, is an exquisite instrument, and I intend to learn how to play your every note, test and try each string simply to see the heights and the depths of which you are capable of attaining. You will know more about yourself and the delights of the flesh than you could possibly imagine exists. I will make you sing, and none shall ever hear your song save us two. Share your skills and knowledge with my daughter, share your bed and body with me willingly, and you need never fear for the safety of your lands and home again.” The hand that had cupped her face wanders into her hair and down the slope of her neck, fingers flexing, digging into the skin hard enough to bruise, and yet her response is to lean into the unforgiving caresses. Emma’s world and vision narrow to the man before her, to the enticing words flowing from his silver tongue, to the exciting ruthlessness of his touch.

She whimpers, thoroughly aroused and entirely seduced by the images his words paint in her mind and the echoing yearning that vibrates through body and soul, and lets him draw her close to him. She’s never been so desperate to finally feel and know and experience all that his carefully selected phrases have stated and implied. She places her fingers against his lips to halt his speech, softly crying out when he playfully nips the pads of her fingertips and moves her hand to his stubbled jaw and neck. He cautiously leans closer—nostrils flaring to take in her natural perfume, her heady, intoxicating scent—and brushes his nose against her cheek before lightly blowing his moist breath along the exposed skin of her neck, her shoulder.

When she shivers delicately and weakly sways forward, he catches her with a scalding hot arm around her waist and his burning lips against her fragile collarbone. He cautiously, gently kisses a path upward, before his tongue traces the shell of her ear, and her earlobe is caught between his teeth and given a tug just on the pleasurable side of painful. “Say the words, Emma. Seal the promise that your body is already making to me right now. No going back and no chance to claim that you have misunderstood. Do you want this? Do you want me, Emma?”

She pulls back, just enough to place his face between her palms and study his lust-drugged gaze with her clear green eyes. He sees her drowning in her own desire for him, for the things he can and will do to her body, yet her soul looks back at him as well, completely in accord with the rest of her being. “I will be yours, Killian.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Say the words, Emma. Seal the promise that your body is already making to me right now. No going back and no chance to claim that you have misunderstood. Do you want this? Do you want me, Emma?”

In truth, there isn’t a single part of her that doesn’t long to cast aside all caution and unreservedly accept his control, yet it is this overwhelming compulsion which prompts her to resist and delay. She has done all in her power these last 12 years to keep herself free and independent and she cannot deny that her path has left her exhausted and lonely. To belong to another, to not have to carry her burdens and manage all cares alone form the core of her deepest, secret yearnings; yet she refuses to sacrifice her freedoms in order to have what she craves.

She studies him carefully, suddenly confused to be staring at—let alone embracing—the proud Prince dwarfing her humble home with his presence; he finds himself darkening the door of a poor cottage for the first time in his life, no doubt, supplicant to a woman who owes him fealty. He could have commanded her compliance—indeed, he could have climbed up into her bed only moments ago and claimed what he desires, and there would have been no recourse for her, no possible way to either deny him or to receive justice afterward. She sees him with overwhelming clarity in that instant: a man who yearns for her womanly body, yet who also desperately longs to be desired simply as a man and not a title. His regal pride will not allow him to beg, so he has convinced himself that he can persuade and seduce her with his sweet words of gentle domination and benevolent rule.

Emma briefly wonders if she has the courage it takes to see this through, if the risk of being discovered in his arms is worth more than fully knowing herself. In giving herself unreservedly to the prince in the bedroom, she can be free to explore her body and her pleasure without being slavishly bound as she would to a husband. He will strictly control their passions and deftly manage the reins, but he will only have that ability so long as she is willing to place them into his care—it will never be his legal right to own her, and therein lays her own mastery of him. For the first time, Emma feels what it must be like to have power over another, the pull to use it dangerously intoxicating. “I will be yours, Killian.”

A shudder of desire ripples through his body at her words, his expression suddenly brimming with smug satisfaction, but also pure and simple joy. His arm around her tightens, crushing her to his chest. When he moves to capture her lips and secure their bargain, she once again presses her fingertips against mouth. “I will be yours, Killian, but only so long as I may remain my own. First, I promise to train and educate your daughter in the womanly arts; in exchange for my lessons with her, _I_ will select the men and women who will tend my herd and farm and home while you see to their wages. I have a small amount of funds from which I can purchase clothing appropriate to a servant in your household, unless it is your custom to provide your liegemen with such as part of their yearly income.

“Second, I do want you, Killian, as a woman desires a man; you will instruct me in the ways of pleasure, teach me the heights and the depths I am capable of, and whether you find me an apt student or not, I always will do my best to please you. But the only coin to pass between us in this agreement shall be sensual; I want no gold, no fine clothes, no baubles, and no gifts from you.

“You are correct when you claim that I care nothing for what my neighbors and the world thinks of me, but I cannot afford to have it rumored that I am your kept whore. Because once a woman allows herself the public weakness of giving herself over to a man’s authority, other men will presume that they can step in and take away her control over her own life once she is deprived of protection. My body and my pleasure cannot be bought, your highness; I offer to share them with you freely, so long as you do not push me beyond endurance and you protect my name from slanders. I will be yours on these terms, and these terms alone. Do you concede, Killian?”

* * *

 

Hearing her agree to be his and the sound of his name being caressed by her lips sends an ache through his whole being, as if some wrenched or dislocated bone has been finally slipped back into its proper alignment. It takes more determination and sheer self-control than it should to openly attend to her demands, and yet he does not make the mistake of viewing anything she says as being a polite request.

He understands her needs and the logic behind each restriction she places on him; although he’d love nothing more than to drape her in fantastically colored silks and lavishly deck her body in jewels, the appearance of such things in her possession would undoubtedly spark others’ interest and commentary. Regardless, even when she’s clothed in rough homespun and has dirt on her bare feet, Emma Shepherd has the pride and bearing of a duchess, effortlessly commanding his respect and further increasing his wondering desire.

Her pride made her spurn his first offer, makes her place shackles of sense and reason upon their public conduct and outward relationship; his pride may yet prove the undoing of them both, but he was willing to make a small sacrifice of it in order to bind her to him in some way. Conceding to her demands is easy in the present, as he cannot imagine a future where his blood does not sear his veins with need for her and thus has plenty of time in which to overwhelm her and beguile her with the luxuries he envisions heaping in her lap.

The fingers of his one hand still buried in her hair, he slips the other from around her waist to the delectable curve of her _derriere_. He lifts her up, off her toes, grinding his erection into the soft roundness of her mound and belly just inches above where she aches for him. “What manner of fool would refuse such sweet terms of surrender? What idiot could resist so beautiful and delightful a conqueror? Say it again, dear Emma. Please say it again.”

He scatters light kisses across her lips, her nose, her cheeks, and her eyelids, still holding her face as if cradling something delicate, precious, sacred. She allows herself the smallest upturning at the corners of her mouth, yet its appearance makes his knees weak; her smiles are so rare, but they transform her fresh, simple beauty into transcendent radiance. She dazzles him and resonates with some unknown place in his soul, compounding his strange unconquerable need for her. He moans when her lips press against his of their own accord. “I will be yours, Killian. I and my body shall serve to pleasure you and yours. I want you; I want to learn what you like, what you desire, what you crave. I want to be yours.”

She mimics his motions of earlier, brushing her lips along the exposed column of his throat, nibbling his ear with her teeth, and tracing random patterns on his skin with her tongue; she teaches him the true double-edged sword that desire can be, where the student quickly becomes the equal of the master. It takes him longer than it should to remember that his hand is in her hair and that he can use it to bring her mouth back to his. After the sweet, blissful haze of hearing her repeat his name and reaffirm her desire for him, he finds himself swept under an intense, painful wave of need. His hand on her ass slips lower, dragging the hem of her chemise up when he finds it and grasping her thigh in order to wrap it around his waist.

He growls when he feels the delicate, yet sharp bones of her ankle and heel digging into his ass and strides forward a step, setting her on the small table. She sucks his lower lip into her mouth, worrying it softly between her teeth and languorously swiping the sensitive flesh with her tongue. He whimpers for her, letting her savor her little victory for a moment before he parts her desire-slick folds with his fingers. Emma gasps unthinkingly, leaving her mouth exposed to his plundering kiss. He ravishes her, tasting every corner as his thumb glides smoothly over her clit. She shifts forward, unconsciously begging him for more as her legs lock around his hips behind his back. A low keening sound comes from deep in her chest as he slips one finger into her sheath, something that makes him think more wicked thoughts of ways to get her to produce such sweet music again.

He adds a second finger, becoming intoxicated with the feel of her quim and of her innocent attempts to ride his hand. She’s so very wet, yet also lush and tight; when he adds a third, she begins panting and earnest in her motions. Her eyes lock on his, drowning in pleasure yet so clearly curious, wanting to know more, to feel more of what he’s giving her. The pad of his thumb keeps circling the hard bud of flesh while he still searches for the elusive little spot, deep inside her core where her walls are a different texture. When the sparkling green gems turn hazy and roll back in her head, he knows he’s found it and is rewarded with a shocked gasp and moan combination that has his trousers tightening painfully.

A few more flicks of his finger and a sharp press to her clit have her sheath clamping down instantly; Emma shrieks, throwing her head forward onto his shoulder and biting into the thick fabric of his coat to stop the delectable sound. In seconds, he has his trousers unlaced, and his cock freed, letting them fall off his hips just enough to sink into her fluttering, velvet heat. And now it is his turn to whimper, to groan and have his wits scattered, because she feels absolutely perfect around him, to the point where he’s not quite certain he’ll last. He pulls back, both of them hissing at the exquisitely painful friction of their flesh—her body clamping and sucking his cock as if disinclined to let him leave.

The primal, undiluted masculine side of himself, the one that urged and commanded he claim her immediately, wants him to assert his control, his undisputed mastery of her body. He has never felt himself more kin of beast than man, never feared the primeval animal that resides beneath the veneer of civilization and rational order; yet he fears himself and his feverish lust in this tormenting, stretched moment. He remains still inside her, fighting for power over his body’s desire, eyes firmly closed. But then he feels her palm against his cheek, calloused yet still soft and beguiling somehow in its timid caress.

She turns his face toward hers, yet says nothing, waiting for him to make the choice to look at her. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees a matching hunger for pleasure—a dark craving older than time or history, a wild and untamable and furious need—alongside a gentle, compassionate understanding. There is no judgment in her eyes, no condemnation of the carnal nature of their connection. So much promise and hope in the words she doesn’t say.

Her gaze drops to his lips, and she hesitantly kisses him—tender, feather-light brushes of her lips. Her thighs tighten their grip around his waist and she rolls her hips into his, gasping at the pull her body exerts on the steel length of his cock. He pulls back as well, staring deeply into her eyes before thrusting hard, the hand around her waist firming and increasing the power behind his movements. She meets his gaze without flinching, although she cannot help the gasp when he nudges the very end of her. He repeats the process once, twice, thrice—a slow, torturous retreat followed by a single hammering thrust—before catching her lips in another scorching kiss and pounding mercilessly into her cunt.

Her gasps become ragged moans as he sets their punishing pace. He drops his head to her shoulder, biting and sucking on the exposed curve of her neck and lower to the mounds of her breasts. Both of his hands are clamped to her hips, pulling her that much closer to him at the end of each swift stroke. She does her best to stay still, gripping one hand in his hair and the other on his shoulder, but his furious rhythm doesn’t do much to help her balance. He buries himself to the hilt on a particularly violent thrust, and she falls back, letting go of his shoulder in order to catch her fall. He notices her predicament, takes the hand that is still in his hair, and brings her wrist to his mouth.

She whimpers when he slides from her body, but he uses her hand to help her to her feet before spinning her around and crushing her back to his chest. “I think now would be a good time to teach you something, and since you’ve been such a spectacularly wanton student so far, I think you deserve to choose. There’s no wrong answer here, darling, and there are benefits to each. Furthermore, you will learn all of them eventually, but I’m interested to know which you would prefer.”

Having held her shift above her waist by his arm wrapped around her, there’s no obstacle to his questing fingers as he fondles her swollen, needy sex. She gasps and arches into him, unconsciously rubbing her ass against his still hard cock and driving him mad. “That’s right, dear Emma. Feel what we do to each other, how your body softens and welcomes while mine becomes firm, unyielding. So, to finish what we’ve started here, do you want to take me into your mouth? Your pretty pink lips wrapped around my cock while you satisfy your greedy little quim with your fingers? Or, I can teach you how to ride me, show you how to use my body to pleasure yourself? Or, I can bend you over this table, let you feel just how deep I can go, how long and thick and hard I can feel?”

She moans, the thrill of the unknown and forbidden warring with the raw, animalistic craving her body has for his. Too far gone in the haze of need and pleasure, Emma doesn’t answer him with words, but simply moves to drape herself over the table. Her silent expression of passion makes him burn hotter for her, the compulsion to brand, to take, to pillage without though becoming a siren’s song that tantalizes his sense. He takes a moment to calm himself, reminding himself of who he is, or what they share, and that he wants her pleasure as much as he craves sating his own. He runs his hands down her smooth thighs, then up over the soft globes of her ass, and the gentle slope of her spine.

Emma whimpers, body curving into his touch as if he is the sun and she seeks his warmth and light. He strokes his cock for a moment, still wet from her lush, generous body, before carefully spreading her folds with the tip. “You have a beautiful cunt, my dear Emma. I dreamt that you sat in my library, right in my chair, and let me watch as you brought yourself pleasure. And I must apologize, for my imagination could not do any part of you justice. Every inch of you is perfection.”

He blows a hot breath over the quivering, moist lips of her sex, and her whole body trembles delicately, as it did when he stepped closer to her or when he grabbed her wrist the day they met. He takes a deep breath, committing her scent to memory before straightening and lining the head of his cock back at her entrance. “Now, I’ll be able to tell the instant you are aroused, the very moment that your body prepares itself for my possession. No matter where or when we are, Emma, I will always know how much you crave my touch, my mouth, my cock. I won’t be too rough with you just now, darling, but I won’t be gentle either.”

He thrusts forward, burying himself again in her tight sheath, and by the gods, she’s tighter than a vise. He pistons his hips, watching his hard length repeatedly disappear into her body. His grip on her hip is bruising, yet he feels her plant her feet and rut herself back into him, fucking herself on his cock. He lets go with his right hand, smacking her ass five times in quick succession before slipping down to circle her clit. He feels her walls begin to flutter around him, increasing the pressure building inside his balls.

She cries out, unable to muffle or halt the pleasure spilling from her lips, unaware how gloriously aroused every noise makes him. “Gods! You’re fucking heaven, Emma. Don’t stop making those sounds—tells me when I’m bringing you pleasure, when you’re ready to come apart around my cock. Come for me, darling. Let me feel you come!”

She arches her back, lifting her chest off the table for a moment just as her orgasm hits. Her walls clench furiously and more warm liquid gushes around him. He loses all restraint and pounds viciously into her quim until he finally spills himself inside her, white-hot lightning racing up his spine and out to his extremities. He’s careful not to crush her as he allows himself to cover her. He kisses the back of her neck and her shoulders as the aftershocks abate, his cock still rigid and burning inside her. He whispers nonsense, praising everything about her and promising more pleasures still to come.

* * *

 

Emma watches him leave, thoroughly enjoying the way his muscles bunch and stretch as he mounts and settles himself into the saddle. She sampled just a small portion of the raw power contained in his lean form, but soon she will know every line of his body, experience every drop of pure energy and stamina he has to offer. The imagined thought of him combined with what little she knows now both excites and terrifies her. After he shifts around, satisfied grin rounding his flushed cheeks in a look of positively boyish delight, he winks at her and sets heels to his horse’s flank, riding off to take care of his own matters.

She turns back into her home, middle slightly sore and tired in a way that she will no doubt become accustomed to eventually. She shifts to stretch and notices a trickling bit of moisture along her thigh, unthinkingly pulling the chemise up a bit and wiping at her skin with the fabric. Later, as she is sorting through what clothing to keep and what to salvage in order to make up her new wardrobe, she will notice the set-in stain of blood and seed. She puts it to the side, determined to wash the garment to see if it can be saved; inexplicably, the shift finds its way into the bottom of her mother’s wardrobe, where it is forgotten by its owner.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very brief historical note: In this chapter, a scene takes place in Sophia’s nursery, but it is not, as some might believe, her actual bedroom. The nursery was a sort of catch-all room for children younger than ten; it functioned as a playroom, toy cubby, study area, and extra wardrobe storage. In medieval times, such a room did not exist often due to a limited number of smaller, private accommodations; the nobles were lucky to have private sleeping alcoves connected to the great hall, often separated from the main room by only a curtain. The nursery as we have come to understand it today actually derives from later Victorian era children’s stories and post-Victorian nostalgia fiction, the most famous examples being Barrie’s Peter Pan and Travers’ Mary Poppins. Consistent with my studies in early to mid Victorian Literature, I am using the term in its slightly older conceptualization.

It would, upon later careful and deliberate consideration, come as no surprise to Emma that Killian in his role as her employer would seek to press both practical and superfluous tokens upon her which she had expressly denied him the right to lavish on her in his guise as her lover. Since neither of them had specified a day upon which she would acquire those things needed in order for her to take up residence as governess at Thistledown Hall and perhaps in a misguided effort to deny the sensual promptings of her own body which urges her to haste, she refuses to fix a day in her mind for when she would make her on-foot journey to the village to make her necessary purchases and commissions. As such while it should not come as a shock, she finds herself the very next day tending her garden and crops only to be interrupted once again by an unexpected arrival.

A small, neat little carriage led by a matched pair of grays and managed by the young footman Graham arrives with the boisterous young princess, her sedately pleased nanny, and the harried village seamstress. In short order, the young man is banished to care for the horses and to find any manner of amusement that keeps him from the cottage itself so that Miss Shepherd’s modesty and privacy need not be offended. Emma blushes at the unfamiliar attentions of the seamstress, whose occupation seems to have so consumed her mind that she views all manner of people as life-sized porcelain dolls—opinion-less objects to be measured and weighed and dressed according to the narrow dictates of either the creator or the commissioner.

Sophia begs to be the first person measured—despite the fact that the seamstress has produced several wardrobes full of gowns and various accoutrements—mostly so that the attention of all of the adults remain fixed upon her for as long as humanly possible, but also to dispel Emma’s obvious discomfort with the strange and unfamiliar procedure. There is also, of course, the added benefit of being allowed that most elusive and forbidden of pleasures—to stand upon the table without receiving a scolding. “It really isn’t all that difficult, Miss Shepherd. One must simply stand very still and not fidget, because fidgeting means that the measurements won’t be correct.”

Emma simply cannot hold back a smile at the little princess’ attempt to make her feel better. “Yes, your highness; I can see where that would be a problem. If I may ask, do you have dresses that are less fancy? Ones that your Papa and Francine do not mind if they become stained or dirty?”

The girl wrinkles her nose at the thought of any one of her beautiful satin gowns becoming rumpled or soiled. “Not really. Why on earth would I _ever_ want to become dirty, Miss Shepherd?”

“You may call me Emma, if you’d like your highness. Or maybe just Miss. And the reason you want some dresses that _may_ be dirtied is that there is more to being a lady than wearing fine clothes, and some of the things that you will have to learn require hard work. While hard work always ends well, it also sometimes ends in soiled aprons and gowns, so we must be prepared for everything.”

“And you simply _must_ call me Sophia!” Francine and Emma both share a knowing look and a bit of a laugh at the girl’s expense, for when one is young and important, every sentence requires at least one exclamatory word or phrase. The princess hops down from her perch on the table, and the seamstress gestures for Emma to step up onto the chair.

“I have two dresses that will suffice for days when Sophia and I might end up in the garden or working in the pantry or stillroom, so I think that four made of woolen should suffice. Don’t you think so, Francine?”

The older woman starts, looking aghast. “Oh! Well, I do believe that his highness made out a list of sorts, guessing that you would not comprehend how much your wardrobe would need to be expanded.”

The seamstress makes a notation in her book, nodding her head in agreement. “He did indeed, ma’am. Said that we was not supposed to use the cheapest lots first off, cause he wouldn’t have no employee of his looking as if he didn’t care for their well-being. Seven simple gowns of lawn, chemises, and stockings for the everyday; a passel of kerchiefs to match; three middling gowns for should company arrive unannounced; two corsets, one for day to day and another for the finer quality; and one velvet, as you should wear if and when the King should visit. Now wouldn’t that be a sight! Our King hisself beholding one of my gowns!”

Emma frowns, clearly disturbed by the long list of what others consider clothing essentials, and begins to calculate in her mind just how much of her savings she will need to dip into to purchase everything required. “But then, his highness is right generous with every soul what works for him, am I right Francine? ‘Twas only a few months agone that a young maid what had been raised at the Hall since she was a mite, got herself married to the smithy’s apprentice; had a lovely little gown made special for the vows, just cause she had heard of such a thing being all the rage and got her heart set on it! Gods alone know what I and my family would do should we ever lose his highness’ custom; we get our fair share of folk from the village wanting finer work than what the wife and daughters can manage, but without all the clothes needed to keep the servants well liveried...”

The woman continues to prattle as she finishes Emma’s measurements and then begins making notations she doesn’t quite understand about “bust lines,” “profiles,” and “palates.” She chooses to make the most of her time with Sophia and Francine outside of the intimidating and imperious walls of Thistledown Hall, taking them on an extended tour of her garden and the barn. They find Graham standing near the sheep pen, gazing off into the distance across the open sweep of the farm’s grazing land thoughtfully. When he spies the trio of ladies coming closer to him, his whole face and neck immediately blush a cheery, bright red and he bows carefully to each one of them. Sophia bats her lashes coyly and drops a fine curtsy. “Good day to you, _Sir_ Graham. How does your fine steed on this _lovely_ day? Have you slain any dragons or trolls lately?”

The footman peers at Emma through his lashes before assuming the role assigned for him by his young mistress, kneeling down to her eye level, and spinning out a fantastical tale that has her giggling and clapping in delight. Having herself been treated to an up close and personal display of the princess’ fertile imagination and generally kind, happy disposition, Emma doesn’t wonder that she easily captures the hearts of those who serve her and earns their fond, affectionate devotion. Francine turns toward the younger woman when she hears her sigh, catching the tender yet longing glance directed at the child and mistaking both the reason for the sigh and the object of Emma’s silent contemplation.

It should be noted that in spite of sufficient personal life experience to the contrary, Francine was possessed of a cheerful personality and ever-sanguine disposition to the point that she always expected serendipitous encounters to be followed swiftly by happily ever afters. Upon seeing Miss Shepherd’s warm gaze directed at the strapping young footman and beautiful child, a thought takes firm, unshakeable hold in the nanny’s romantic heart, one that will over the course of her close service with the younger woman provide her with endless hours of doting amusement and a cherished wish upon which to build her own fantastical hopes for the joy of those she deems deserving. For what greater felicity could an impoverished, yet industrious and beautiful shepherdess hope for than to be united to a more prosperous and charming young man of her own class?

“Well, my Lady, there’s enough of that foolishness and make no mistake. Your lord father will be most anxious that we have not yet returned with Miss Shepherd and her things. Graham, please do see the horses hitched to the coach, and we shall see to Miss Shepherd’s trunk. Come along Lady Sophia. There’s much to be done.”

Graham looks blushingly at Emma before rising from his knees and making haste to obey Francine, who has begun her own speedy walk back to the cottage. Sophia slips her hand into that of her governess, chattering about the various adventures they shall have once she returns to Thistledown Hall to stay, entirely oblivious to the slightly horrified expression on Emma’s face. An expression which quickly morphs into one of resignation and which completely belies the tightly reined-in fury currently directed at a particularly cunning, devilishly seductive, and thoroughly high-handed prince. She does not doubt for a second that she will need to be prepared in the future for such clever deceptions being carried out by all too innocent messengers, and to discover ways in which to thwart him.

* * *

 

While her father had owned a farm beast in her youth and thus had allowed her the chance to learn to ride bareback on a docile creature designed for hard labor, Emma has never before ridden in any sort of conveyance pulled by one or more horses bred purely for their stamina, elegance, and speed. The old gelding had been sold after her father’s death because neither Snow nor Emma had had the strength needed to yoke Pilot to the plow in the first instance, nor the powerful arm muscles required to keep the rows straight. But walking Pilot across the pasture with her father at her side, apart from running foot races as a small girl, is the fastest she had ever gone until now. The entire trip from her farm to the village—to drop off the chatty seamstress, who promises to have at least one serviceable gown sent along tomorrow—and then from the village to the Hall goes by so quickly that Emma feels positively breathless by the time they arrive (and all in less time than it would have taken her to walk a one-way-journey into the village).

Looking up at the side entrance of Thistledown, she feels much less intimidated by the grandeur of the house even though she comes now as a resident for the foreseeable future and not as a mere guest. Perhaps it is the comforting, inclusive atmosphere created by Sophia and Francine as they tell her all about the different inhabited nooks and crannies of the manor. While another footman helps the child and her nanny to the alight from the carriage, it is a flushed yet pleased looking Graham who assists her to the ground with a firm grip on her hand and a light touch to her waist. But Emma does not see the footman’s smile nor feel the warm weight of his hands, because her vision is ensnared by Killian’s smile and the delighted expression in his eyes when they catch on to Sophia. It reminds her poignantly of the way her own father once looked at her, causing a gentle ache in the region of her heart.

Emma quietly thanks Graham and demurely takes her place beside Francine, watching the prince scoop his daughter up in his arms and twirl her about. When Killian’s gaze lands on her over his child’s head, there is a distinct coldness in his appraisal that has her inwardly shivering from the chill. Naturally then, her external reaction is to appear as distant, untouchable, and untouched as humanly possible, neither offended nor pleased by her master’s perusal of her person. At this juncture, she has placed him neatly into two compartments of her mind; because to do otherwise, to allow her thoughts and feelings for the one influence her behavior and decorum around the other will ultimately result in the discovery of their true relations. Dramatic as it might sound should it ever be uttered aloud, Emma would rather die than to allow the truth be made known, because to be found out _would_ spell the death of her independent spirit and her freedom.

“Francine, it seems that you and my daughter have worked your magic and wiles upon Miss Shepherd, spiriting her away from her lonely cottage and bringing her here immediately. You two have my sincerest thanks, for it took all of my considerable skills and stratagems in the art of persuasion to convince her to take on the job of transforming this little change-child into a lady! I cannot imagine the feats of strength it took to bring her home to Thistledown.”

“Oh, your highness, t’weren’t no matter at all once Miss Shepherd here caught sight of our young Graham. Why, I must say that while she was quite vocal and inquisitive of what manner of employer you are in the presence of the seamstress, once we finished up and were in the young man here’s company, she went silent as a temple mouse and just as biddable too! Must be that something else has caught her eye than the chance to work at this drafty old hall. Begging your highness’ pardon, but women do appreciate finer things in life than taking care of another man’s children and living like a servant all one’s days.”

Emma’s face suffuses with a bright red, no doubt—shocked at the older woman’s presumptions and scandalized that she would dare utter them aloud for everyone to hear. She doesn’t know if she’s mortified most on her own behalf, on Sophia’s, or on Killian’s; nevertheless, she bites her tongue and advances toward Killian, holding her arms out to Sophia and taking the girl from her father. Instead of apologizing or addressing the uncomfortable topic, she drops a curtsey and looks directly at Sophia—refusing to meet the eyes of anyone except the little girl.

“Now, my Lady Sophia, you have seen my cottage, and since that is where I was born, you know that I will become horribly lost in Thistledown Hall without your help. Would you be so kind as to show me your nursery?”

Killian watches the two of them sedately discussing the various pieces on the walls and the number of rooms Sophia knows of as they move further into the house, their quiet voices echoing even after they have turned beyond sight. He shifts his focus back to Francine, who had been frozen in the one spot since his glare had silenced her mid-speech; for he doubts not but that she would have continued to wax eloquent on the topic of Emma’s presumed dreams for the future. He’s always known that his daughter’s nanny was something of a busybody, yet he had never comprehended the distances her romantic flights of fancy were capable of taking her. His blue eyes and rigid posture communicate his scarcely contained displeasure as he dismisses a stuttering Graham and the other footmen with a flick of his wrist.

“Francine, I fear that I must speak with you regarding what has just passed. Since you obviously cannot use the eyes nor the common sense with which the gods have blessed you, let me impart some wisdom to you: any fool can see that while Miss Shepherd is possessed of a keen wit as well as physical beauty, she does not appreciate being the focus of peoples’ attention. In plain, she is shy, and your open discussion of her feelings whatever they may be regarding someone of the opposite sex just made her vexingly embarrassed and uncomfortable. As I said, it took a great deal of persuasion and convincing on my part for Miss Shepherd to accept the great trust of her position. Given this, I would ask you to curb that gossiping, matchmaking tongue of yours where my daughter’s governess is concerned.

“I wish to hear no more about you arranging assignations or flirtations with grooms and stableboys for her, nor do I wish for the young princess, the possible future queen of this kingdom to be spoiled by an inclination for rumors and intrigues. She will have enough of those once she becomes a fixture of the court, so I would prefer that her childhood not be marred and shortened by scandalous or even merely indecorous tittle-tattling. A princess, and moreover a queen, must be above reproach in this matter as in all else. Have I made myself clear, Madame?”

During the course of her employer’s tirade—for though he kept his voice firm and level, she could not mistake the icy rage in his tone—Francine’s face underwent several changes in coloring, from blushing red to white with shock to green with ill ease. She gently nods when he finishes her dressing-down, at which point he stalks ferociously in the direction of the nursery, anger and ill-humor radiating from him with every determined stride. From thence forth, all of her efforts toward uniting Miss Emma and young Graham in a blissful union clearly must be conducted with the most scrupulous eye to propriety and decorum as well as stealthy silence.

* * *

 

Killian feels only a touch of remorse concerning the manner in which he addressed the nanny’s overly meddlesome and loquacious commentary on their retrieval of Miss Shepherd, and that only because he misdirected more irritation toward her than he should have. However, Francine had not only presented herself as the perfect target for his ire, but he was quite forcibly unable to focus his resentment upon the person he believed most deserving of it: Graham. The second he had opened the door and began descending the stairs to meet his successful emissaries and Emma, the sight of the young footman touching Killian’s lover as she descended from the carriage had caused him to seethe with rage.

The thought of planting his fist repeatedly into the ruggedly handsome face of his servant and the urge to deprive him of the use of his hands forever had struck Killian to the core. And yet to act upon these or any such impulses would unequivocally declare that Emma Shepherd was not merely his employee to protect, but rather announce her to all and sundry as his lover. All of her wishes to remain independent and unfettered would be as dust and shadows should he have given in to the compulsion, the violent need to claim her.

He had latched onto the lifeline of his daughter’s presence, convincing himself to remain outwardly calm and unaffected by the way another man was handling what rightfully… well, what rightfully belonged to Emma herself, but which was still his to cherish, his to defend so long as she remained his mistress. And aside from the highly pertinent, immediate result of correcting Francine’s propensity to idle chatter, he doesn’t doubt that his explanation for Emma’s disinclination for and disinterest in being romanced by a servant will spread to the others in his household and serve to keep young men such as Graham from tendering offers of love and matrimony.

Though his feet were already carrying him in the appropriate direction, the distasteful image of Emma’s lithe, nude form in the arms of another lends an extra burst of speed to his long-legged lope. He hears Sophia’s bright voice spilling out of the nursery and unerringly continues toward them; yet he halts just outside the doors and finds an incomparable vision, something that stirs a great, ill-defined longing. Bright, noon-time sunlight streams in from the south-facing windows, bathing all in the room in a beatific, gentle glow; and centered in a dazzling shaft of light, Emma and Sophia sit on the floor, a book cradled between their hands and a glorious halo surrounding their heads, one dark and one golden. An unfamiliar, unidentifiable sensation washes over him—neither joyful nor sorrowful, neither happy nor sad, neither lacking nor overflowing. If one were to be simultaneously a philosopher and a romantic, one might say that for the first time in years, the prince feels that most elusive of emotions: contentment.

Yet Killian is neither of these, and thus ascribes no special notice or name to the brief shining moment, but rather finds himself most definitely lacking and wanting for something. “I see that my daughter already has you hard at work, Miss Shepherd, although I didn’t expect you to begin proper lessons until at least a part of your wardrobe arrives. Sophia, my love, ‘tis time for luncheon and then a nap, is it not? Off with you now, so Miss Shepherd has a chance to settle in.”

Sophia looks for a moment as if she would rebel or at least speak out, but then a positively crafty smile breaks out across her face before she leans over and whispers in Emma’s ear. The two ladies laugh before the girl stands, grips her skirts well above her ankles, and makes to sprint past her father out of the nursery. Fully accustomed to his daughter’s antics, Killian manages to snake his arm around Sophia’s waist, hauling her up into his embrace. She kicks and laughs as he spins with her. “Put me _down_ , Papa!”

“Ah! But having caught myself a princess, I am in no rush to let her go. Unless you are willing to pay the toll…” Sophia hums and taps her lip dramatically, eyes looking upward as if deep in thought. Finally, she grins again and places a kiss on his whiskered cheek, wriggling out of her father’s arms and darting away to the kitchens.

Killian closes the doors behind him once his daughter passes out of sight, securing the lock carefully before turning to face Emma. She’s still sitting serenely in her halo of sunlight, book held in her hands as if she has nothing more important to do and nothing else of interest to behold in the room. He crosses over to her, stopping a few feet away and simply watches her. She does nothing except stare at the book, turn the page every so often, and yet she effortlessly captivates him. He yearns for the slow stroke of her fingers against his skin, like they now skim over the smooth paper and leather; he longs to wrap himself in the golden, silken light of her hair, to feel it caressing him as he brings rapture and ecstasy to her body.

“I find myself quite upset with you, your highness. I believe I was quite clear when I stated that I wanted no frippery or baubles from you.”

“Indeed, I remember your forceful negotiation quite well, my dear Emma. You also stipulated that if it was my custom to provide appropriate attire to those in my service as part of their wages then I should do so. Even if you sold your mother’s clothing and several items from your cottage, you would not have been able to afford an entire wardrobe. I maintain a list of necessities with my housekeeper, so that whenever a new servant is hired, she knows what to order. I simply…expanded the list to suit your new status as Sophia’s governess.”

Emma finally looks up at him, annoyance and arousal swimming in her eyes despite her best efforts to conceal them. “And to suit yourself, no doubt.”

“I’ve never met a woman who disliked receiving gifts and tokens of my regard and affections, save you. So, please bear with me, my dear, for it is in my nature to spoil those I admire and to wrap beauty in luxury. Reining in my impulses where you are concerned has been quite the struggle, yet I believe that I have thus far done admirably well. Should my valiant efforts at modesty go unrecognized and unlauded?”

“Your very desire for recognition is entirely at odds with genuine modesty, my lord. Shall I praise your humility next? Applaud your noble charity and stand in the village square proclaiming to all and sundry what a fine specimen of beneficent royalty you present?” Her eyes brim with mirth and mischief, yet they dim as he continues to hold her gaze, his own stare serious and darkening when he does something she would never suspect possible. He kneels, so that he no longer towers over her, yet still maintains enough of his height to look down at her, and catches a lock of her hair.

“Joy and laughter suit you well, dear Emma. You were meant for bright happiness and smiles, yet fate has dealt you cruel blows, and all I can give you to fill the void they have left behind is pleasure. Perhaps, in time, you won’t be able to remember what you’ve lost, but only what I have lavished on you.” He cups the back of her head, securely cradling it while he pulls her body flush with his. His lips brush gently over her brow down to the tip of her nose before capturing hers. She’s seen them set in a firm line when he was determined to convince her to be his, but now they are soft, tenderly persuading her to yield.

Emma gasps, opening her mouth to him as his palm burns her breast through the thin material of her dress, her nipples puckering into hard peaks at the glancing touch. His tongue darts into her mouth, puckishly begging hers to come out and play; if their first kiss had been about power and control, this one is purely for seduction, for savoring. She moans as his lips travel down her throat, contact between the broken only in the moment it takes her to slip her dress off over her head. Killian takes his first true look at her body in all its untainted, innocent glory, and discovers the absolutely erotic nature of purity. He presses a delicate, ephemeral kiss to her lips before reaching out to caress and entice her.

He begins with feather-light strokes of his fingertips, tracing the sharp, clean lines of her shoulders and collarbones, down to her arms that have instinctively wrapped themselves around to cover her breasts and the nest of golden curls above her sex. Carefully, still using the lightest and most reverent of touches, he unwinds her long, slim arms and wordlessly bids her hold them out from her sides. He begins again, this time brushing along her creamy thighs, her sharp yet soft hipbones, her tiny waist, and up to her rib cage. He scrupulously avoids her more sensitive regions, loving the way her breasts tremble with her rapid heartbeat and how she moves seeking his touch or to increase friction and pressure.

He cups her head in his hand again before firmly stroking up her spine with the other, causing her to cry out at the intensity of the sensation. Emma falls into his arms to capture his lips, and after a chaste, glancing kiss, he shushes her and smoothly lays her out on the silken carpet. He murmurs soft praise for her obedience and her beauty, continuing to stroke her with only the lightest of pressures. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart. Let me see your lovely cunny.”

Still shy, yet eager to please, her thighs quiver with need as she spreads herself for him. Since the moment he’d locked the door, he’s been able to smell her desire—a sweet, yet earthy scent overlaid with the faintest whiff of the lavender oil she must use for her skin and her hair. Killian’s arousal had sharpened instantly, but the sight of her sex openly displayed for him—the lips a dark, deep rosy pink glistening with her body’s need and the sensitive pearl of flesh peeking out from its hood—combined with the positively erotic scent specific only to her puts his whole being on edge. He brushes her inner thigh with the backs of his fingers, and Emma begins to shiver in earnest, a low keening breaking through her chest.

Finally, after an exquisitely tense minute of waiting, Killian deftly parts her folds and spreads her juices up and over her engorged clit. She cries out again, her whole body arching into his tentative touch. “Gods, how you tremble and quake for me, lass! You are a vision, a sensual feast in the ways you respond to me! Since you are cross with me, even though I was careful to keep my gifts of dresses and such for you within limits, I fear I must humbly crave your pardon, Miss Shepherd.”

He continues to taunt her with every gentle caress as he positions his body between her legs. Her mind is clouded, pleasure creating a drugged, sedate humming where her skull and spine meet. Killian wraps one arm beneath her lower back, just above her ass, lifting her so that her quim hovers mere inches away from his face in the air. “Am I forgiven, dear Emma?”

She lets out a strangled moan as he buries his tongue in her cunt, the wet, silken walls hot and seductive against him. He cannot hold back a grunt of his own as he closes his eyes, bathing each one of his senses in her one at a time. She tastes sweet as honeycomb in summertime, smoky as an aged whiskey on a cold night, and spicy as an exotic delicacy. She smells the same with notes of clean skin and lavender—a perfume that he would bottle if he could and scent his sheets with every night. His tongue continues exploring her cunny, mapping out the places where he makes her writhe—rippling, velvety folds hidden deep within her.

He pulls back, placing a chaste kiss to her pearl of flesh; she pants and squirms, desperate to escape him or encouraging him to dare more. He scents her with his nose again before ghosting a hot, moist breath over her sex. Her eyes glitter like pieces of a broken windowpane—shattered and needy. He licks the tender bud before sucking it into his mouth. “Am I forgiven, my dear?”

“Killian, I…”

“Yes, darling Emma. What can I give you? How may I atone and make recompense? I would give you the world if only you would ask for it. Say I am forgiven Emma, then tell me what you want.” She’s never seen such an earnest intensity, never herself felt something or needed something with such singular clarity of desire and purpose. She trembles to behold such reined-in yearning, such consuming determination.

“I want you, Killian. All I want is you.” It takes him mere moments to lay Emma down and rid himself of every stitch of clothing; she only recognizes his absence when the raging furnace of his body returns to hers. He gently wraps her in his arms, bringing her up to kneel just as he is.

“Put your legs about my waist, my dear, and your arms about my neck.” He guides her over him, brushing the tip of his cock against her soaked entrance. Despite their intimacies of the day before, he knows that she hasn’t yet had the chance to appreciate his form as he has just so thoroughly done with hers. “Touch me as you will; if it please you—if I please you—put your hands on me.”

With a gentle rock of his hips, he seats himself inside her. The both moan and suck in a shocked breath, the one at the delicious intrusion and the other at the decadent, delightful reception. The walls of her pussy tighten, stretching to accommodate his size and rhythmically rippling in welcome. Emma writhes against him, circling her hips involuntarily in a manner that has him begging for more and for mercy. He pulls out most of the way, leaving just the tip at her entrance before slowly yet powerfully sinking back in to the hilt. Every thrust ends in a whimper from her and a sighing grunt from him, as they continue their debauched torture of the other.

This second coupling can hardly compare to the first, which burned white hot and died out in an instant. They blaze blue, like the hottest and brightest of stars, yet remain cool, unperturbed, and placid as a verdant forest pond—soothing one another in their intensity. When they break and come apart in each others’ arms, it’s a revelation that neither one can deny, yet neither do they know quite what has been revealed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Villain (also spelled Villein) is an antiquated term for a serf or peasant who was tied by feudal or familial obligation to a specific lord and usually to a specific piece of land; they were perpetually indentured to their feudal lord, unable to marry or even move without his express permission. The caste was essentially wiped out in most of Western Europe by the Black Death because with the large numbers of both commoners and nobles dead, it was impossible to obtain accurate records and prove a person’s status.
> 
> For those of you who have hinted or asked, yes, there is more of this story to come. For various personal reasons, I was unable to write and work on this project for just over three months; it has been difficult time to say the least because I love this story and these characters so much. I am able to write once more and continue to work on the next installment (which, for those of you who are not aware, is chapter 14; HDB has been on FFN since April/May of this past year).

Though a part of her desperately longs to luxuriate, to never leave the unexpected haven of the nursery, Emma swiftly rises and dresses herself again. Killian—the _prince_ seems likewise to have completely succumbed to a sort of daring madness and in no hurry to either re-clothe himself or vacate the room. A pang of mortification at her own recklessness hits her as she looks at the toys and books lying about around her, keenly aware that some of them hide underneath the casually discarded garments. She searches for his drawers first, embarrassingly conscious of his nakedness, and tosses the offending linen his way while refusing to look in his direction. Her averted eyes allow him to soundlessly sneak up behind her and lock his arms about her waist, stilling her frantic motions with the heat of his body pressed against her spine and with a line of delicate nibbles across her shoulder and up her neck.

Killian continues his slow torture, feasting on her skin and sinuously rocking his hardened flesh against the soft curves of her derriere and the gentle slope of her spine. “Why the sudden fear, darling? Why does shame flush your cheeks instead of passion? Have I not sufficiently made amends? Speak to me, Emma; tell me where I have erred, what I have done to cause offense and to make you absolutely tremble with the urge to fly from my arms. Please do not shut or lock the doors between us! You are my equal in this endeavor, and I will not have you afraid to open your mind to me.”

His sweet entreaty, like every word spoken between them rings with the sincerity of his conviction; his voice tenderly compels obedience, earnestly demands a complete and willing surrender. She turns in his arms, eyes cautiously rising to his face and closely examining every line and feature before she takes a steadying breath.

“Forgive me, but I fear that I must be blunt: I am not your whore, nor can it ever be whispered that I am. Did you not yourself note the ease and speed with which you shut us in here, with which you bolted the door? You are right—there can be no shut or locked doors about us in the future, because such things are the very beginnings of rumors and gossip, my lord! What if your daughter or Francine had forgotten something and returned here while we sated our passions? What if a maid had traversed the hall and heard the sounds of desire meant to be shared between us twain alone? We cannot risk… We must be circumspect and rational from now on.”

Although her gaze and face retain the soft glow of thorough satisfaction, her expression also reflects horrified panic at the specters that would swiftly become terrifyingly tangible and real in the event of just such a discovery. He inwardly curses his own folly and the beautiful insanity that grips him where she is concerned, whenever her scent carries to him or fantasies of her beguile his mind. Yet her own thoughts run parallel to his, for her next words pour out in a flustered, endearingly shy rush, while her fingers absentmindedly trace the curve of his lips.

“I forget myself, abandon my good judgment and surely my wits when you look at me; I am your novice in these matters, as we agreed, but please have a care for my reputation! As perfect, as sweet as this interlude has been, I cannot chance another such dalliance, your highness. Seek me again in daylight hours, and you will compel me to quit your house, your tutelage, and my position as Sophia’s governess. Do not test me or try me on whether I will cling to my decree—my word upon this matter as in all others, once given, is irrevocably fixed. And the matter of my wardrobe is far from concluded as well. Good day, my lord.”

Emma curtseys appropriately before straightening her spine and seeking the exit as rapidly as if her life depends upon it. The door closes after her with a ringing finality that echoes her clearly delivered and received message. Killian runs his fingers through his hair, tugging mercilessly on the ends. Madness! The simple country lass who possess the graces and steeled-spine of an Archduchess has surely bewitched his body and brain, stirred a fevered lust that can never be sated! His vaunted, obviously misplaced pride in his ability to command his own flesh mocks him for his weakness; and yet the darker, fettered portion of his soul revels that it has finally conquered his resistance, finally broken his falsely stoic exterior, and hungers for more. Her demands are valid, it whispers cunningly, yet we shall see what lies beneath her own façade before too long. A passionate nature too long restrained, too long denied, will, when at last allowed a glimpse of freedom, achieve all the black and forbidden delights within its powers and beyond, savoring them both in the moment and cataloguing the minutest pleasures for the dreaded, yet inevitable day when its chains repress it once again.

* * *

 

Emma leans her back against the closed door, fruitlessly willing her heart to cease racing and the rosy glow of complete satiation to leave her face. She places her palms against her cheeks, surprised at the unaccustomed warmth she finds there. What a wanton sensualist she has become that she cannot delay or deny her lover for longer than five minutes! She certainly has no desire to have their secrets exposed, but she also cannot refute the fact that the naughtiness of both the location and the timing of their tryst had leant a definite measure of spice and decadence to it as well. Her need for Killian, her longing to have the man all to herself and awaiting her pleasure has become a fire that burns beneath the skin or a tincture that flows in her veins; his mere presence leaves her wanting and yet satisfies her at once.

She forces herself to walk away, to head back toward the grand foyer and seek directions to the kitchens where Sophia and Francine will no doubt be waiting for her. She does not understand the nature of her yearning, of her weakness for the prince, but she knows that she cannot reveal to him the extent of her thralldom. Emma watched her mother sicken and die of a broken heart, and so she had set about making her heart and soul impenetrable to love and more tender emotions. She has compassion for the poor, the wounded, the widow, and the orphan; but she stoutly refuses to allow them or their plight to in any way infringe upon her day to day life. She will do her best to provide Sophia with an education befitting a woman of wealth and property; she will take her pleasure of Killian’s body until they decide to part ways and end their liaison; she will do all within her power to remain untouchable, unassailable, and unbroken.

That evening, after a long day spent assessing Sophia’s general knowledge and working through an inventory of the stillroom, Emma is escorted to her very own chamber where a large, steaming tub waits for her in front of the room’s fireplace. She tentatively, wonderingly runs her hands along the exquisitely soft towels and marvels at the small bar of lavender scented soap. She smiles when she finds a note addressed to her underneath.

_You are right on all counts. I won’t endanger you like that ever again—you have **my** word upon it. Tonight, as penance for being an unmitigated ass, I will leave you undisturbed. You are not used to the comforts and luxuries that I am, my dear, but you also have known a great deal of privacy. I will do my best to keep that in mind, reining in both my all-consuming hunger for you and my desire to lavish you with those delights and delicacies of which I sincerely believe you to be fully deserving. It is a selfish zeal, for I long to ever see you smiling as your smile transforms your ethereal beauty, no doubt making angels weep in envy at your radiance. Enjoy your bath, dear Emma; no one will enter your chambers without your leave tonight, nor on any night you wish to remain unmolested and alone._

* * *

 

_My dear brother,_

_Your interest in your near neighbor tells me much, no doubt far more than you would like. But then, you were always one for your silences and secrets, Killian. As you requested, I have asked one of my clerks to look into the matter of the Shepherd Farm and how it came into the current owner’s parents. I do seem to recollect an amiable and gracious pair making themselves known to our late King and Queen, seeking a private audience at court nigh on 30 years ago. The impression was fixed in my mind only because I was specifically excluded from their conference with our parents and because I remember that the man looked like a drudge or a servant, while the lady appeared very refined indeed. That their daughter would be herself a living contradiction does not surprise me in the least._

_If the young woman does in fact possess the graces of a lady and the knowledge necessary to Sophia’s betterment in the art of housewifery, as you say, then I have no objection to her as a governess and tutor for my well-beloved niece. I look forward to examining both teacher and student when I next visit Thistledown. On that note, I urge you to not be overly concerned about the completion of the more decorative and superfluous repairs on the manor and lands; all I ask is for comfort and quiet, though I do expect that my next bit of news will produce the opposite effect for you._

_As you know, Parliament has met in your absence. Your proxy acquitted himself quite well, however, he was forced to accept from the combined Houses a petition that has assuredly been forwarded to you. No doubt, you will wish to riffle through your neglected stacks of political correspondence to ascertain the truth of my words and confirm the existence of the document. And unfortunately, burning the one copy you received will do you no good this time, Killian. They have you well and truly by the cods, the long and short of it being that you must marry as befits your station within the year. Our lovely girl is no longer enough to quiet the unrest regarding the succession, but I am in no position to be producing further heirs, and my health has come to such a pass that those facts can no longer be hidden from those in government. You can no longer avoid your duty to the kingdom, brother._

_To that end, the council has vetted the names and pedigrees of several eligible young ladies, both within the kingdom and from among our current and potential allies. I have endeavored to keep your options open, but they insisted that with my coming visit to your home, the task of matchmaker should also fall to my purview as your brother and head of our house. Prepare for a siege, Killian, for I am compelled to bring a potential bride or two for your inspection. So far, the least objectionable has been Lady Drusilla Tremane, who shared a flirtation with you about two years ago, if memory serves. She has remained single and available—perhaps for just this eventuality—but she would be an eminently practical, and hopefully not disagreeable, choice. Naturally, if you have another, preferred lady’s name to enter into contention, please notify me immediately._

_I am sorry that I was unable to stop the Lords, and that after everything you have gone through—after all the grief and troubles that I caused or could not protect you from. I would spare you further pain, but alas, even a King cannot always command the obedience of his people. Mea culpa._

_Wllm. Rex_

* * *

 

Killian sits before a roaring fire, the two offending documents crumpled in one hand while the other is wrapped around a glass of exotic brandy. A litany of curses rolls through his mind—for himself in thinking that he could forestall the inevitable, for his brother for being unable to do the same, for his parents in encumbering him with their blood and their sense of duty and honor. His mind wanders to Emma, glad that he promised her a night of freedom from him because he does not trust himself around her in this moment. In his impotent rage and violent unhappiness, he might do something he regrets or might become sufficiently deluded into unburdening himself to her. His woes, his grievances are far too great a weight to place upon her fragile, innocent shoulders; and yet who else could possibly understand his plight better than she?

Who would have thought that a prince would ever have something in common with a peasant woman? Custom and tradition may dictate that a young woman marry, yet Emma Shepherd has carved a place for herself in the world—a haven of freedom and choice. If he wished, Killian could command armies to march for him and conquer unknown lands, could direct navies to take him to distant, glittering shores… And yet on the one issue where he most desires his own independence, his own unrestricted choice, he remains as powerless as the lowest villain. He broods on his brother’s words, wishing they were boys again and he could thrash Liam into submission; wishing that the world and all its ills hadn’t come between them.


	7. Chapter 7

Emma wakes with the rising of the sun as usual, but it takes her consciousness more than a moment to come to full awareness as the soft down in the mattress and pillows oh so gently beguiles her back toward blissful sleep and soft-edged, sensual dreams. However, delightful as it would be to indulge herself in a spot of morning dalliance in bed, once fully aware she cannot reconcile her mind to whiling any more time away in selfish idleness. No matter her current situation and how swiftly Killian has changed nearly everything about her circumstances, she understands poignantly that fortune’s wheel can spin her lower than before and that a person’s comfort and happiness can vanish in the blink of an eye. She only needs to remember her mother’s anguished screams of denial when the King’s messenger came in order to banish the seductively cloying, misty fog of laziness and force her body into action.

Yesterday, she had spent a great deal of her time simply getting to know Sophia, confirming her already positive impression of the young princess. While Emma would previously have been hard-pressed to explain just how a noblewoman ought to behave, the girl’s sunny disposition and unpretentious kindness contrasts sharply with her now admittedly preconceived expectations of lofty disdain or cold indifference toward the thoughts and feelings of others. The Prince’s letter, but not his actions and speech towards her when face to face, must have supplied her with the belief in the selfish and calculated superiority of the aristocracy for she certainly cannot remember ever having been in such august company prior to their chance meeting.

Emma sighs as she stretches her limbs and dresses in her remaining clean everyday gown. Regardless of how she expected the child to behave, Sophia’s tuition and decorum are now her areas of governance. The grand tour of the manor had been deemed unnecessary, as she would always be in the company of either Sophia or Francine and would begin to make a mental map of her own based on their excursions; however, her hasty retreat of yesterday to the kitchens had proved fortuitous, as it had revealed to her the precise point and location at which to begin teaching her pupil. The child and nurse had just finished their meal, providing her with the perfect opportunity to question both of them as to the state of affairs at the manor in general and in specific regard to the princess’ education.

Now, fully dressed in the simple, rustic fabric and sturdy boots, Emma digs through her small trunk for one of her mother’s journals—an old and weathered book to be sure, but with an adequate and still-supple leather binding—and makes her way to Sophia’s suite. A gentle series of knocks produces Francine, the older woman unexpectedly wearing her hair in curling papers under a night cap, tugging at the edges of an ancient bed-robe, and yawning widely. The nanny blinks owlishly at her, while Emma belatedly realizes her mistake. “I’m so sorry to wake you! I didn’t realize that you wouldn’t be up and about yet!”

“Not at all, Miss Shepherd. Think nothing of it. But the young mistress, and indeed the master, do not usually rise until later, even though they do keep country hours instead of court ones while here. Gracious! If you’re up and about when the sun just peeks over the horizon, I shudder to think what will happen should you ever come to court with us! Some balls and to-dos don’t rightly end until the new day dawns! But hear me rambling on so! How can I help you dear? Should you like me to wake Sophia now?”

“Oh, please don’t, Francine. If she is used to other hours, I shall just have to adapt myself accordingly. I thought to begin Sophia’s education in the garden today, so once she is up, please make sure that her clothes are comfortable and on the older side. You’ve naturally been teaching her to read and speak by example, so I thought to start her more formal education slowly—making her learning fun while practical, so as not to tax her impatience too much.”

The nanny smiles brightly at her and nods all the while, as if agreeing with her or confirming her opinion on the matter. “So, when she’s up and breakfasted, we should join you outside then?”

“Please do. There are a lot of plants that I’ll need to harvest, so I can grab a bit to eat and then begin the more tedious tasks on my own.” Emma waves her back in and sets off to find the kitchens, a task made infinitely easier by the drifting smell of baking bread. She calls a greeting to the cook and baker, both working with sleeves rolled to their elbows and covered in the grit and grime of their respective trades. The various underlings bustle to and fro, fetching a requested item for their overseers or working on separate projects; she offers a smile and a polite good morning to each of them, careful to match faces with the names she learned yesterday. As if perfectly at home, she passes into a short hallway, one that houses the baker’s pantry, the cook’s pantry, the staircase down into the cellars and the ice house, and a room that will no doubt quickly become hers and Sophia’s particular domain, the stillroom.

When she had asked Francine where the stillroom was located, the nanny had comically opened her mouth, only to take a breath and pause. It was short work to discover that this was most definitely the one area in which Thistledown Hall was severely lacking; although, considering that the person expected to have spent most of her time crafting the basic herbal remedies, teas, tisanes, poultices, and plasters as well as the soaps, perfumes, and potpourris necessary in such a large household would have been the lady of the manor, the fact that the servants had abandoned the still and taken to making those purchases from apothecaries seemed perfectly reasonable. However, as accidents and injuries often occur where no men of medicine are not about, making certain that such a large estate is equipped to deal with emergencies likewise seems eminently practical to Emma.

She opens the door to the small distillery, which shares the fireplace with the main kitchen, so that tonics and infusions can be brewed or left to steep when being prepared or when needed. Yesterday, the lone window had been blackened with soot and dirt and other assorted grime, and the room itself had had a disused, musty smell about it; on her orders, one of the maids had cleaned the glass—so that mellow sunshine and the fire provide plenty of light to see by—and dusted out all the cobwebs. Now, thanks to the open window with its newly oiled hinges, the room smells fresh and invigorating. All the old materials had been chucked into the mulch pile and the glass bottles, measuring spoons and cups, and various tools of the stillroom had been given a thorough scrubbing. Everything looks bright and shiny, if not good as new, and ready to be put back into service. Emma smiles at the thought of working the still again, something she has had no time for since her father’s passing. To that end, her mother’s journals from her younger days will help guide her in case memory fails until she reestablishes and refreshes her craft skills; she also makes a mental note to get a list of writing supplies ready to pass onto Francine, especially a journal specifically for Sophia’s personal use, so that she can record what she learns each day and store away each bit of knowledge for future use.

Never being used to such an abundance of everything she could ever imagine wanting, Emma requests a small, portable breakfast from the kitchen staff—two boiled eggs, a sweet bun, and a mug of tea with cream—and shortly makes her way out to the kitchen garden. Aside from their savory reputations, some of the everyday herbs used by the cooks have very potent and beneficial properties in medicinal remedies. Angelica, Anise, Basil, Bay, and Black Pepper can all provide relief from coughs and colds if used as a poultice or rub to be spread on the sufferer’s chest; Cardamom, Coriander, Dill, Fennel, and Ginger work wonders on an upset stomach in teas, or, for one as young as Sophia, mixed in oil and rubbed directly on her tummy. And while most of these are perfectly safe for the princess to help harvest, Emma remembers that some of these plants, herbs, seeds, and flowers can be quite dangerous to the child once they are concentrated into oils after the distilling process. And yet others, such as Pennyroyal, Valerian, Camphor, Artemisia, Date Palm, Willow, and Rue should be considered dangerous at every stage of processing.

She makes a note of which should always be kept away from Sophia, many of them ingredients she will be using personally for her daily tea-tonic, and determines to set aside specific time for herself where she can handle these more toxic remedies. After a stop by the gardener’s shed—where she collects several baskets, some shears, and a trowel—Emma identifies the first of her intended ingredients and begins to work the soil. While not nearly as back-breaking or intensive as her labors tending to her crops on her farm, the heat of the swiftly ascending sun combined with searching for the appropriate parts of the herbs and freeing them from the earth or the plants has her sweating and covered in dirt in no time at all. More than once, she fills her basket and goes back inside in order to properly spread out of hang her harvest, so that the excess moisture can be dried out of them; though she doesn’t notice, the maids and cooks all cast approving glances at her as she passes, gratified to know that this new governess is not some high and mighty twit, but rather a woman like them who intends to work for her wages. She may be higher on the servants’ social chain—like Francine, or the housekeeper Mrs. Potts, or the steward Mr. Fairfax—but she won’t put on airs or disdain to lend a hand where needed.

Emma manages to finish harvesting from the herb garden when she finally sees Francine and Sophia seated at the kitchen table eating the last bits of their breakfast. The princess’ face lights up when she sees Emma, a smile brightening the pixie-like expression in a way that absolutely tugs at her heart; it’s an open, honest joy that comes from merely being in the presence of someone genuinely liked and admired, and Emma hasn’t seen such a look directed at her in years. The urge to weep bittersweet tears pulls at her, but she refuses to give in to them. She resolves, as ever, to remain strong and resist revealing herself and her emotions through her countenance and her behavior. She returns the dazzling smile and Francine’s amused grin as well, while Sophia launches into an interrogation on what they plan to do that day.

But the arrival of the prince in the humble locale of the kitchen silences the hustle and bustle around them and diverts the child’s attention to her parent. “Papa! I was just asking Miss Emma what we were going to do today. Francine made me dress in this horrid gown, but I’m happy about that because if it becomes dirty I shan’t have to wear it ever again!”

“Well, I do insist that you try not to dirty it beyond all repair—you might need to work out in the gardens again sometime, and it would be a shame if some of your pretty colored older dresses would need to be used out there instead. You are going to be working about in the gardens today, are you not Miss Shepherd?”

“Indeed, your highness. It came to my attention that the estate’s distillery has been long neglected; while everyone here can no doubt afford to purchase many things at the apothecary’s in town, it would be prudent to maintain basic emergency supplies just in case. Besides, once one knows how to work the distillery properly, we will no doubt find that many of the items currently being purchased can be made from the natural wealth around us.”

As Emma warms to her theme, her eyes widen and brighten in a way wholly new to him. He has seen her rage at him in righteous indignation, seen her glow for him in sensual rapture, but this is the first time he sees simple joy and contentment light her being. Clearly, her mother trained her in these herbal arts and nurtured her daughter’s passion for creating and crafting; just as obviously, thanks to the cares and woes of needing to maintain the crops to feed herself and her herds, her time has been taken up with work other than the useful pastime she prefers. While it is but small in the grand scheme of things, Killian himself feels a tiny swell of pride that their association has proven the least bit beneficial to her peace of mind, to her personally in that it has freed her to pursue her vocation again. “If Miss Shepherd says it is so, then so it must be. Mark her well, little imp; she is far wiser than her years, or she truly is a good fairy in disguise. Have you done as I asked and searched her for wings yet, Sophia? How about ransacked her room for her wand?”

Emma blushes at his playful talk and the ridiculous lengths he will go to in order to make his daughter laugh and smile, thinking that his constant devotion to her childish amusements must be the reason why she appears untouched by the melancholy of having lost her mother at such a young age. Though the painful thought never fully forms in her conscious mind, a part of Emma fleetingly wonders if she might have remained youthful and exuberant had Snow been better equipped to deal with the loss of David, devoting herself instead to keeping the living whole of mind and body rather than grieving the dead far beyond the grave. If her mother had not collapsed and become a hollow version of herself, would Emma’s childhood and innocence have lasted just a little time longer? And would that extended period of naïve bliss have changed her in any way? Surely, for what has Emma been doing with her life up until now, except for spending all the years of her life in honoring the dead, in living merely for the sake of keeping her parents’ farm just as it was the day that her father past? If her mother or her father had taught her and urged her to live for herself, to live for the joyous, life-affirming moments filled with such rare incandescence, what a gloriously colored story she might have been heroine of!

Thankfully, father and daughter have been too wrapped up in their own little world of wonder and play to have noticed her silence. She waits patiently with Francine, a smile on her lips as she watches the small family; no matter that there are only so many hours of daylight left, and she feels that she has much which needs to be accomplished today both with and without Sophia, nothing is as important in this moment than letting Killian have this peaceful hour of communion with his daughter. And if, somewhere in the depths of her heart and her mind, Emma pictures herself included in this ideal picture of family with other children and a growing Sophia sitting on laps or surrounding their parents on the carpets before the fire, then no one need know save her.

* * *

 

Killian paces in front of the fireplace in his room, furtively and frequently stealing glances at the small clock on the mantelpiece. He passed the previous night so restlessly, in spite of drinking himself into oblivion—his dreams had been violent and troubled, and he had woken with horrendous and hard-earned aching in his skull, far earlier than his wonted hour. No erotic memory or vision of Emma’s lovely body writhing underneath him, nor her warm body in bed next to him to mitigate the horrors of the night before. The last thought—of waking beside her—sends a thrill of longing up his spine, surprising him with its intensity, and opens a wound he had believed long healed and forgotten. In the three short years he had been blessed in being Milah’s husband, they had never spent the night in each others’ arms. She would come to him in his bedchamber, lie with him as his wife, and perhaps pause a moment, holding him while they shared the days burdens or laughed over their daughter’s latest antics; yet long before sleep claimed him, she would retire to her own bed in her own chambers. He had hoped that given his ardent love for her, she would have come in time to have enough affection for him to want to stay; however, he knew the reality of their situation as members of the nobility, and that her intimate distance was quite normal for a gently born and bred lady.

Yet the extreme intensity of his desire surprises him. Nay, his _need_ to pass an entire night with Emma in his arms and wake to find her still wrapped about him like a honeysuckle vine hits him in his gut and takes unshakeable root in his mind. The yearning breaks his resolve to wait, to give Emma more time to prepare for their evening; he picks up an oil lamp and opens the hidden door in his room. The moment he had fixed his mind to make her his mistress, Killian pondered the ways and means of passing from one room to another without being detected or discovered by any of the other inhabitants of the house. Thankfully, he remembered the ancientness of the house and the rabid curiosity of his youth. He and Liam had explored every corner of the manor as children, and thus had inadvertently stumbled upon the servants’ passage. At least, that’s what their father had called it when questioned about it all those years ago.

The passage itself was wide enough for one person, or for several people to walk single-file, and only connected to the master bedroom on the first floor and one of the other bedrooms on the second floor of the family wing—a bedroom that would belong either to one of the children of the house once they outgrew the nursery, or to one of the higher servants who would see to the personal needs of the family. In truth, the long-forgotten lord who had commissioned the building of Thistledown Hall had the passage constructed so that he had ease of access to his mistress, a use that Killian found himself in need of. It had been a simple manner of stealing a few cleaning rags in order to wipe away the years of accumulated cobwebs and grime, and then covertly tossing them in with the laundry. As he descends the stairs, he notices the disrepair of the stone floor, grateful that he decided to keep his boots on and mindful that he should encourage Emma to do the same when coming to him.

When he reaches the bottom of the staircase, only a short stretch of hallway and the thin wooden door stand between him and his Emma, his anticipation reaches a plateau where he cannot fathom himself being drawn any tighter. Spending the entire course of dinner listening to his daughter’s recitation of all she had learned that day—how plants and flower were not just pretty, but good for any number of things—had never taxed his patience more. He had burned with the need to make Emma laugh and smile, to make her look at him with anything but cold indifference. And yet now, through the slight barrier of wood and stone, he perceives a gentle splashing and an off-key humming. He presses his hand against the slim bit of wood and plaster, but does not reach for the handle, content to just listen to her simple sounds of pleasure and delight in her bath. The fierce ache in his cock tightens just another notch as he imagines her wild curls damp with moist heat, falling out of a once carefully pinned knot at the top of her head, or cascading in damp tendrils that barely conceal her blushing breasts.

He envisions the candlelight and firelight, causing each bead of water to glow golden as they travel meandering paths down her creamy flesh, gilding her naked glory. He longs to go to this vision, this siren and suck the droplets from her skin, one by one; he yearns to strip the clothes from his body and cover himself with hers, watching and feeling her as she straddles him in the warm water, their skins slippery with their own fierce desire for one another. But when his vision of her stands in that same tub, beckoning him forward with one hand while the other languorously seeks her own pleasure, he can tolerate being apart from her no longer. He knocks gently, whispering her name like the sweetest, more earnest of supplicants, begging her to open for him.


	8. Chapter 8

Emma could not have told you precisely how she expected the evening meal to proceed, but the dinner consumed that night with Killian and Sophia in a formal dining hall including more formal attire for everyone—nearly all of her new wardrobe had arrived that afternoon, complete with fussing by Francine and some of the maids—surpassed anything she could have imagined. Not only was the unfamiliar constriction of a corset distracting enough, but for the first time she glimpsed her lover in something close to his native element. From the tailored fit of his dark red waistcoat and black dinner jacket across his trim waist and tapered hips up to the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest, every inch and line screamed luxury and regal perfection. Even the movement of his hands as he expertly carved the main course or lifted a goblet to his lips exuded an inbred gracefulness that was awesome to behold. To be quite frank, the meal itself was a feast by her standards and thoroughly sated her stomach; however, the quelling presence of others and the limited scope of their interaction provided a sensual banquet all on its own, one that rather whetted her appetite than satisfied.

And yet after they had all withdrawn to their own private pursuits for the night, he had bid her have a pleasant sleep and left her with Francine and Sophia. She felt more than a little perplexed and slightly miffed at being thus abandoned, for she assumed that he would have somehow notified her of his intentions regarding a resumption of their intimacies. Surely a request for her to join him in his study to discuss her land and farm would not have appeared suspicious? But then, she muses, perhaps he knows better than a country simpleton. Not knowing what else to do with herself, she spends the next half hour attending the princess in her evening ablutions and helping to tuck the girl into bed. Her charge safely secured for the night, Francine indicates her desire for her bed and passes the information along that a maid has prepared a bath for Emma in her own room. After wishing the nanny a pleasant sleep, she searches out her bedroom in a ridiculously pleased daze; for somehow, Killian has divined her secret love of indulging herself in a warm, fragrant bath as often as possible and has taken it upon himself to make that once infrequent extravagance into a daily reality for her.

She laughs at herself and at the irony of having only recently believed herself to be above such materialistic wastefulness; even Emma Shepherd can be purchased, it seems, and at the relatively modest price of extreme cleanliness and nights dedicated to thorough explorations of wanton pleasure. When she reaches her room, one of the maids is waiting to help her out of the unfamiliar garments, patiently talking her through the process of disrobing so that she hopefully can manage the feat on her own soon. Down to just her petticoat and chemise, she dismisses young Leah with a sincere expression of gratitude and rapidly strips the remaining linens from her body before sinking into the delightfully hot water. Deeming her hair clean enough to survive another day or two without washing, Emma reaches out to collect a few hairpins that had been thoughtfully placed on an end table just far enough away to be of use to her and yet also be protected from any untoward splashes from the tub.

After securing her unruly mass of curls, she reaches for the delicate sliver of lavender scented soap and works up a lather in her hands. As she begins to run the suds over her wet skin, Emma recalls to mind the way Killian’s callused, masculine hands had felt as he’d mapped her planes and curves yesterday in the nursery and wonders how differently they might feel when wet and covered in soft, soapy bubbles. She’s explored her own body before certainly, but never with the time or inclination to luxuriate in the sensations resulting from the task; at the end of a hard day of work, pleasuring herself had sometimes been physically necessary, yet all too brief given her exhaustion. Curious, Emma rises to her knees so that the water falls level with the lowest point of her hips; she places her hands on her shoulders, mimicking his motions from earlier and only exerting the slightest of pressures as she slides them down to swirl about the skin of her breasts. She weighs each mound of sensitive flesh tentatively before continuing her examination, learning her own body as if for the first time all over again. She presses harder, molding and manipulating her areola and nipples, gasping at the differing sensation of touching herself this way.

She glides her hands down the smooth roundness of her belly, discovering the muscular suppleness of her thighs, exploring the hard crags and sharp angles of her shoulder blades and spine. The fragrance smells of home, registers as familiar to her senses, and yet there remains an underlying dissonance, an exotic newness that excites and entices her as much as the aroma soothes and comforts. And through it all as she deliberately saves that most feminine part of herself for last, she anticipates finishing the sensual, deliberate circumnavigation of her body and unknowingly stokes to life a yearning that she will not be able to satisfy on her own. When her fingers finally slip down over her mound, she moans low in her throat at the intense sparks of pleasure that radiate outward from where she touches herself. The slightest brush of a soapy fingernail against her clitoris makes her writhe and long for Killian’s expert skill and his ruthlessly questing caresses. She plays with the lips of her sex, gently pinching them between thumb and forefinger and stretching the responsive, tenderly aching flesh. She registers the slickness of her juices as it meets the glide of the bubbles, the two intermingling to create an exquisite kind of moisture and friction.

When she presses harder on her clit, the pearl of soft tissue slips and shies away from her touch; she anchors her hand more firmly between her thighs, effortlessly plunging two fingers into her sheath and positioning her thumb to continuously glide over that tight bundle of nerves. She arcs her back, thrusting her hips forward unconsciously as she plays upon her needy flesh, feeling deliciously wicked and thoroughly wanton as she chases completion. Several thoughts—images really—she had during dinner flash through her mind, gloriously heightening her fall over the edge and hastening her toward orgasm: a vision of Killian fully dressed for a formal dinner in all his regal finery, yet with the laces of his trouser undone and his proud, turgid member standing fully engorged and on display for her alone beneath the table; of her lips wrapped around his cock, sucking and swallowing and licking and nibbling as he comes apart for her; of how he must have looked the other day in her cottage, every inch the rapacious, conquering, and indomitable lord as his clothed hips slapped wildly against her uncovered flesh; of him in all his naked glory covering her body and pressing her deep into the mattress, stretching and filling her beyond all her wildest and furthest imaginings; of kind cerulean eyes and unyielding spirit. Stars flash behind her eyes as release floods her body, her inner walls clenching and grasping madly, somehow knowing that hollow absence of his cock which if present would render her bliss complete. She rides out the tremors, lust still unsatisfied and untamed by her ministrations.

She finally sinks back into the water, letting the level rise and rinse away the drying suds from her skin, feeling fairly deflated and unquenched. Rather than help her relax her way toward sleep, her bath has only heightened her already voracious appetite and made her hunger into a snarling, ravenous beast. Despite having said nothing to her, Emma thinks back again and wonders if there was some sign she missed or some clue in his behavior as to what she could have done in order to encourage him to request a tryst. Should she have approached him on some pretext or another? She sighs, forcing herself to stand up and abandon the now rapidly cooling water—she pauses, tilting her head to the side because of—again! A soft knock, but not coming from the direction of her door. She grasps the bath linen about her, moving closer to the fireplace from whence the sound came. Another muffled knock and what could be the sound of her name falling from her lover’s lips. “Hello?”

With a click, she notices movement from one of the rounded bits of decorative plaster lining the wall panels; it turns, rather like a diminutive doorknob. The entire panel begins to swing toward her, seams appearing in the paper that had been hidden until this instant by the lines of the woodwork. Killian steps into view, carrying a small oil lamp in his hand and confirming her suppositions; the sight of him less than completely put together—cravat undone, waistcoat unbuttoned, and linen shirt open almost to his navel—enhances her desire for him even further, although by the apprehension on his face, he entertains no idea of just how thoroughly and eminently alluring is the sight of him here in her room under the flickering firelight and all _en dishabille_. Her whole body sways toward him as if he exerts the same pull on her that the sun has upon the planets, or that the planets have to their moons; she cannot help but be drawn closer to him, to yearn to share and occupy the same space.

He sets his lamp upon the mantel and takes her hands in his, eyes alighting on the thin, damp linen that marks the only barrier to his possession of her body before swiftly rising back up to her face. “Emma, please forgive me for the intrusion. Hush, my dear! I told you that this room was meant to be your sanctuary here, and that not even I should be allowed to violate it. From now on, I will let you know by a sign at dinner that I wish you in my chambers and in my bed that night. Fetch your slippers, and I will show you the way.”

He presses a kiss to the back of each hand before reaching for her robe and holding it out for her. She gives him a shy smile and a gentle huff of displeasure at his gallantry and then turns her back to him before releasing her hold on the bath linen, letting it fall to the floor and baring the smooth expanse of her posterior. He rewards her coyly erotic display with an awed, appreciative groan and a gently brushed kiss to her shoulder before he settles the robe about her. She quickly pulls the garment closed and ties the belt into a bow, sliding her feet into the slippers that had been left to warm on the hearth and moving to take the pins out of her hair. Killian grips her wrist lightly and shyly shakes his head before taking her hand in his and collecting his lamp in order to lead her to his bedchamber. His quiet words about cleaning and repairs are not lost on her by any means—words that curiously urge tears into her eyes at the thought of the length he has gone to in order to care for her every want and need, but which she suppresses—yet they come second to the singular thrill of the novel experience. Emma may already have shared flesh with him, but this marks the first occasion with her properly installed in his household and their first time amid the private decadence of his rooms, a sensual haven where their delights will no doubt never be disturbed.

Even with its debauched history, the lightless, hidden staircase should inspire dark thoughts of long buried, yet deadly secrets and malevolent ghosts that roam the scarcely lived-in halls and rooms of the manor; indeed, the oil lamp provides them just enough illumination to see the steps beneath their feet, casting most of Killian’s frame and face into the deepest of midnight shadows. Yet it is a shiver of anticipation, not terror that races up her spine at the realization that for all the passion between them, Emma knows precious little about the man who so meticulously ensnares her body and mind. His life may play itself out upon the public stage for all the world to see, but both the façade and the true man remain a mystery to her, and no doubt will ever be one. From the little she has gleaned, her prince shares as little of himself as possible with those outside his family, and no matter the intimate nature of their relationship, she has no illusions about ever breaking through his steely reserve to the private person.

But for all the walls between them, she has no fear of him, no doubts that he will keep her physically safe and protect her reputation and their liaison with every ounce of power at his disposal. Every moment they share within the confines of their clandestine relationship will be defined by exploring the utter limits of their pleasures. At the top of the stairs is a small corridor that leads to a second hidden door, one that opens next to the massive fireplace just as in her room. Though the journey in the passage has been brief, her skin is still damp from her bath and her night-robe is fairly thin, chilling her enough that she shivers slightly. Killian softly curses under his breath, drawing her close to the fire before letting go of her hand and moving to bring one of the comfortable armchairs closer to the warm blaze. His preoccupation gives Emma time to survey her surrounding, his natural and personal environment.

Despite his penchant for drab or understated colors in his wardrobe, not a single fabric that touches Killian’s body could ever be described as anything less than luxurious; if clothes make the man, then no one can deny that he belongs to a line of kings. Yet the decadence and vibrancy of the furnishings and draperies in this room positively astound her. The large bed dominates and draws the eye of all who enter, with a mattress wide enough for three or four across; the piece itself carved of a dark cherry wood and polished to gleaming, each of the four posters as thick around as Emma’s entire body and reaching up toward the ceiling to support a canopy and drapes of deep, blood-red velvet. The bed curtains are tied back with golden ropes, sending a shiver of anticipation up her spine at the fleeting fantastical image of what other uses those bindings could be put to. Though she cannot see underneath the crimson and gold brocade bedcovering, she’s certain that the sheets are woven of the most delicate linen or fine silk that will warm with the searing heat of passion flushed skin.

Killian distracts her from continuing her examination when he places his hand at her back and insists that she sit in the newly moved chair to warm herself by the fire. He kneels on the soft lambskin rug spread before the fireplace at her feet and stares piercingly into her eyes—an act which renders her unaccountably self-conscious and prompts her to either look away or to continue to meet that too knowing look. She averts her gaze, wringing her hands in her lap and curling her feet into awkward positions. Gently, carefully, Killian takes one of her hands in each of his and brings them one at a time up to his lips so that he may brush a kiss across the thin, sensitive flesh of her wrists.

“As I said a moment ago, my dear, your room is your personal sanctuary; not even I should enter save with your permission. Here is a haven of a different kind, one that exists to shelter our pleasure and nourish sensation. I may be your teacher, Emma, but that does not mean that I demand or expect blind obedience; if there is aught you want, anything you need from me that I can give, you have but to ask. There are certain… avenues of sensual delight that I have long wanted to explore; if you do not wish to investigate those paths, then I want you to feel free to tell me. I may try and change your mind, may seek to persuade you, but do not be afraid to say me nay. Do you understand, darling?”

Emma nods her head and swallows past a lump in her throat; there had been a flicker of trepidation, a grimace of pain and fear at the mention of alternative paths to bliss that reveal in part the extent of his unhappiness, of the lonely and unsatisfied life he had lived, perhaps even in the time that he had shared with his wife. A part of her more than understands that hollowness—she has lived it herself and become so far acquainted with the empty ache that she feared never knowing aught else—and longs to weep for the both of them. Yet neither her pride nor his would be able to tolerate her tears born of empathy and pity. Instead, she offers up her submission. “I do, and I promise that I will.”

Killian smiles so brightly at her, his focus so intense that it knocks the air from her lungs and kindles her desire for him yet again. She tightens her grip on his hands, using them to help her rise to her feet and then perform the same courtesy for him. With her heart hammering wildly beneath her breast, she firmly places his arms at his side and presses gently—a silent request that he keep them there for a moment. Without breaking their shared gaze, Emma tugs at the bow holding the halves of her robe closed, yet leaves the garment on her shoulders. “In the spirit of keeping my promise, I want to strip these clothes from your body. I want to touch and discover and explore your man’s form and physique, and then I want to kneel at your feet and learn how to pleasure you with my mouth, just as you pleasured me the other day.”

A groan of desire passes his lips as she slips the waistcoat from his shoulders and begins disrobing him. “I am at your disposal, Miss Shepherd. Am I allowed to touch you through this process? May I speak and describe to you precisely what affects your caresses have upon me? How I’m being drive mad with need under your keen, eager eyes? Shall I tell you the agony I suffered last night in denying myself release in your lush feminine heat? How I could find no relief in my hand now that I’ve been inside you and know what heaven is like? How I have dreamed and imagined it will feel to have those plush pink lips wrapped around my cock?”

He raises his hand to her jaw and traces the silky skin in question, taking her silence and challengingly raised brow as permission to continue speaking and to stroke her during her perusal of his body. She nips playfully at the fleshy pad and her tongue darts out to lick him, earning her yet another agonized groan. Her fingers trace the strong lines of his hands and arms, trailing up along his collarbone and down the plane of his torso and the muscled curves of his abdomen. Her eyes follow the sinuous paths she makes with an ever-growing fire of lust as she lightly fondles and then cups his straining erection. Even through the layer of his trousers, her hand radiates that distinctly womanly warmth that has him aching and hardening further still. It seems an age before she reaches for the placket and begins to unbutton the confining material.

He watches her through half-lidded eyes as she slowly slides the trousers down his legs and slips them off his feet. Her fingertips barely brush his skin as she does this, but he feels an electric charge jump from her to him at this insubstantial, intentional caress. He plays with the ends of her curls, letting the warm silk flow through his fingers like a living, golden and bronze waterfall, while she continues to investigate him down to the tips of his bare toes. It seems an eternity has passed by the time she flattens her palms over his calves and slides them up over his knees and to his thighs, anchoring herself to him. She looks up at him with a gaze both passionately carnal and ethereally innocent. “What shall I do now, my lord?”

He brushes his thumb tenderly across her chin. “First, let this be the last time you call me “lord,” unless it’s all a part of our play, my dear Emma. And second, what do you feel like doing? What do your feminine instincts tell you? I want you to be comfortable, so it would probably be best if I lie down or sit in the chair. Do you want to use the bed, or shall we stay here by the fire?”

Her gaze flicks over to the chair, both consciously and unconsciously longing to recreate the vivid fantasy of her earlier imaginings. Killian tilts his head, curious as to what could possibly have built such a blaze of lust so rapidly in her bright eyes, yet he makes no move to demand an answer from her—his silence calculated to urge her to choose to share thoughts and inner longings with him, but not for coerce unwanted intimacy. She bites her lower lip and flicks her tongue out rapidly to wet the reddening, abused flesh, still naively unaware of just how blatantly erotic and inviting her every gesture appears to him in his highly aroused state. “Until dinner, I had never seen you dressed so finely, nor had I truly seen you in such a sumptuous, exalted setting. You have seen what I come from, what meager comfort I am used to; I know that this hall is but a small and unrefined portion of the grand luxuries you were born and bred to, but for me, it is the height of wealth and decadence… It made me want to sit at your feet, cosseted and petted by you. And it also made me yearn to slip beneath the table, to released your cock from the confines of your trousers and stroke you to arousal.”

She continued to steal glances at the soft, velvety leather covered arm chair, slowly and silently urging him to move in that direction with both her looks and increasingly bold caresses of his thighs and his stomach. At her mention of his erection, his cock had twitched, and then she finally took him in her hand. The friction of her touch felt tormentingly gentle, yet her grip did not falter; even as he collapsed back into the chair on a sigh of need, she had followed just as quickly, stroking and petting him lightly as she fell to her knees before him. He languidly lifts a hand to her hair, caressing her cheek as his fingers sift through her tresses. “Your caresses would have been most welcome, my dear, yet I was already achingly hard for you. Perhaps later, I can share with you the fancies and imaginings which taunted me during our meal. Yet go on, Emma. What else did it make you want?”

“I wanted to drive you to distraction. I imagined that I was secreted under that table during a fine ball, where you were surrounded by courtly guests and kingly visitors; and that while you dined in splendor and entertained perfectly, the entire time I was bringing you to the brink of ecstasy again and again. A countess was charmed by your witty repartee; a general was flattered by your grasp of his soldiers’ needs; a bishop toasted you for your piety and charity to the widows and orphans of his diocese. And all the while, as you basked in their praise and respect and their acclaim, you were fucking my mouth and fondling my breasts. I let you come when they all rose to toast your generosity and health as their host and as a prince worthy of his title and ancient lineage. Because that is who I have seen and come to know in this short week—a nobleman who truly deserve that appellation; I may never be more than your secret mistress and governess to the princess, but having known you and observed the kind liberality shown to every subordinate on this estate, I now take pride in the land where I was born and I gladly, earnestly wish to serve the man who will be my King.”

Until her last words, she had been tentative in her ministrations, interspersing her words with kisses, licks, and timid nips as well as continuing to stroke and fondle his cock, the slender and excitable skin of his thighs, and his balls. Every delicate gesture had elicited a response from him—moans, sighs, groans. But the instant she wrapped her lips fully around the tip and crown of his cock, hastily taking every single engorged inch into her mouth and then opened further to slip him all the way back into her throat, he had whimpered and unconsciously thrust further into her. Gods! But it was divine! That waiting heat, the firm convulsions of her throat around him left him yearning for more and yet conversely floating in the bliss and immediacy of the moment he wanted to never end. Though unpracticed, her every movement was enthusiastic and lacked all faltering hesitation; she may not be studied, but she possessed no fear either of the pleasure he could give her or of him abusing the trust she so readily placed in him.

He kept one hand anchored in her hair, groaning in delight at the feel of her satiny tresses brushing against his already hyper-aware thighs and abdomen, purely for the joy that keeping her near brought to him. His other hand caressed her flesh—massaging her delicate shoulders and nape, taking tacit permission from the description of her fantasy and palming her breast, kneading the firm mound and tweaking her puckered nipple. Words of praise and hunger dripped and flowed like honey to hear ears, encouraging her when her own desires and instincts proved accurate or correcting her when the exquisiteness of her tongue and teeth was either too much to bear or about to send him over the edge. When he finally gave in to the primal urge to impale her lush sheath, all sense of time, of duty, of honor, of obligation had collapsed under her sensual, erotic onslaught. They both transformed into creatures, animals of pure hunger and need, capable only of understanding and wanting the moment of coupling, the raging inferno of desire that had been created between them. It was the primeval call to mate and to claim, and had either of them actually thought about the possibility of denying it, neither of them possessed the will to do so.

* * *

 

The next morning Emma makes her way to the orangery, an entire outbuilding attached to the house itself near the kitchen complex comprised of panes of glass and kept heated year round so that foodstuffs and flowers can be grown that otherwise would not have thrived in the more temperate climate of the region. The previous afternoon, she had managed a brief span of time without Sophia to gather up some of the necessary ingredients for this morning’s work. When she returns to the stillroom, she collects together everything she needs, including the leaves and seeds she had set aside to dry near the hearth over night. She grinds each item—ginger root, pomegranate seeds, raspberry leaves, Chaste Tree berries, and willow bark—placing an appropriate amount of each in cut squares of thin cheese-cloth. Finally, to each square, she adds a couple fresh raspberries and a slice of pomegranate. Thanks in large part to a ready supply of components, she only makes enough for just over a sen’night—for herself and in case any of the maids should require the tea.

Emma ties each of the cloths with a bit of twine and places all of the pouches, save one, in a clean wooden box on one of the highest shelves in the room to keep it safe from prying eyes and light fingers. She takes her one pouch with her as she leaves the stillroom, and immediately asks one of the scullions for a pot of hot water. When the girl returns with kettle and teacup in hand, Emma catches her wrist to get her attention. “Would you be able to spread word among the staff for me? If any of the ladies who work in the house need help with the usual and unusual sort of female ailments, I have the skills and the teaching necessary to help; no questions ask, no judgment given. Can you pass this along?”

The girl lowers her eyes to the tea pouch in Emma’s hand and smiles at her. “Your Mam taught you?”

“She did. She and I both suffered a lot of pain with our courses if we didn’t drink the remedy; I still do, naturally. But she taught me how to take care of our people, even if it was just the three of us, and if anyone needs a hand then it would be a sin for me to do aught but help.” The scullion leaves with a wink and a nod, quickly going back to the task of obeying the cooks’ whims. Emma smiles as she drops the tea in to steep, satisfied at a task well done in sharing what she knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this last part could lead me into a very long diatribe on herbal and naturalistic forms of birth control. I’ll save you most of it, but the ingredients I list above for Emma’s preventative tea are quite commonly known and used among herbalists. There are also several contraceptive methods that might come into use later in the story, so I’ll quickly explain a bit now so that you aren’t shocked or confused when they show up. Sponges soaked in some form of natural spermicides have been used for centuries, but one of the least expensive and (depending on climate) easiest to procure are plain old lemons and limes. In the Mediterranean in particular, fresh limes and lemons were either cut in halves of wedge and then inserted into the vagina before coitus. Both are high in citric acid, which is strong enough to kill off the sperm and any bacterium but gentle enough to not harm the vaginal tissues themselves. You can also use a wedge of either fruit to clean your hands. They were also a common ingredient in spermicidal jellies, but that product needed to be used relatively quickly as freshness of the citric acid was very important.  
> Pomegranates have often been described as being symbols of fertility—a bit of historical irony there as Katherine of Aragon chose the pomegranate as her personal sigil before marrying Henry VIII of England—but their seeds were known to actually reduce sperm count in men. Thus, it was not often eaten fresh unless the man had baby prevention on the brain (which actually occurred in a scene during season one of “The Tudors”). If you are interested in other info, send me a message and I can steer you in the right direction.


	9. Chapter 9

_To His Royal Majesty, King William II, etc._

_Greetings, brother. Your news regarding Parliament’s edict was, I shall confess, most unwelcome; however, their action can hardly have been surprising and hearing the plain truth of the matter from your hand softened the ultimate blow.  As always, I am yours to command and remain your faithful subject, even unto the much debated arena of matrimony. Indeed, I know that for a man in my position, I was blessed to be able to marry my first wife by both choice and affection; your own lot and path has not possessed the same, which has grieved me to no end. I shall endeavor to reconcile my personal desires with the dictates of duty and country. In the matter of the unobjectionable ladies thus far put forth, I leave all that in your capable and benevolent hands; since continued bachelorhood and seclusion have been my preference since my beloved’s passing, I cannot recall to mind a singular maiden or widow who comes equipped with all the graces and dignity which would befit the future Queen of this realm; further, having long preferred the country delights and simple living far from the prying eyes of court and diplomatic circles, I find myself entirely ignorant of any potential brides of foreign birth who would benefit the kingdom by such an intimate alliance. Bring or put forward whomever you and Parliament deem best suited to the task. As to the particular lady you mentioned, any flirtations were wholly upon her part, I assure you; my feelings ever only extended to the kind camaraderie of friendship and gratitude for her companionship in my long hours of mourning._

_Enclosed in this packet, along with the usual estate receipts, are a letter and a drawing both painstakingly labored on by Sophia. She has sworn me, upon my honor, not to gaze upon her maiden efforts in the arts of sketching and correspondence. Perhaps, she believes that her uncle will prove a more compassionate critic of her labors than a doting, yet stern father…_

The high-pitched voice of his daughter floats to him on the breeze through the open windows of his library and distracts him from the letter he has been attempting to compose to his brother all week long. He holds his breath, waiting to hear the lower tones of Emma’s patient, tender reply to whatever question Sophia must have put to her; when he learned that the two of them would begin their lessons out in the gardens every day, he had barely suppressed a tortured groan, knowing full well that the pleasant view from his desk would be rendered all the more lovely by their combined presence. However, concentrating on affairs of state and the manor lands would become infinitely more difficult on account of the very same. Not only was his heart, as well as his eye, drawn to his Sophia and to the happy picture of domesticity she created all on her own; nor was it simply that his mind and his body brimmed with ungovernable lust at the sight of Miss Shepherd bent forward on her hands and knees, displaying the perfect shape of her delectable derriere through the layered veils of her clothing and conjuring wild images of her posed just so for him, naked under the light of the moon like a goddess of the earth ready to receive his worship; yet the sight of the two women in his life, the two halves of his world coexisting and interacting as if it were the most normal course of events, stirred in him an unknown, unspeakable joy and an indefinite longing.

He remembers again that first night with Emma in his bedroom, startled to realize that her advent as a permanent fixture in his life happened merely a week ago and that less than a month has elapsed since she saved Sophia and he became aware of her existence. In the same amount of time, he has been informed of his pending loss of freedom to the shackles of duty, and yet it is her who has most significantly altered the weft and weave of his life. Before her, there were the occasional, fleetingly bright lights of comfort and far-off hope in the dark loneliness; after her, colors and textures and shades had begun to appear in the seeming return of the dawn to his future. Come what may, Killian has no intention of being confined to that sort of wasteland ever again; no matter the cost to his pride, he will find a way to keep her always at his side.

In his distracted frame of mind so focused on the as yet vague potentialities, he fails to notice that Sophia and Emma have moved on to another portion of the grounds, far beyond his immediate sight. A deliberate, confident knock pulls him from the depths of his thoughts and returns his attention to the present moment. “Enter.”

The impressionable, young footman—Graham, he recalls—appears through the open door, and Killian congratulates himself on the neat solution he has devised for this particular problem. Although the man himself has clearly not impressed Emma in any way and it would be a slight on her fidelity and trust to experience jealousy, Killian remembers all too well the agonizing feeling of needing to fight off others for a beloved’s affections. He tells himself that his faith in her is too unshakeable to be assailed by over-protectiveness and doubts—it is the young man, and not her, who he mistrusts. Further, removing Graham from the manor will have the added benefits of not only keeping them apart physically, but also prevent them from being paired off in the meddling, matchmaking minds of others.

“Milord. You asked to see me?”

Killian attempts to concentrate on the matter at hand, upset with himself for continuing to be so distracted by thoughts of Emma. “I did. I have a proposition to lay before you, Graham. Please, do sit.”

The footman, unaccustomed to being the recipient of courtesy at the hands of his superiors, finds the prince’s manners to be impeccably correct and kind, yet slightly frightening all the same for their unexpected appearance.

“As you know, Miss Shepherd has agreed to become the Princess’ governess and tutor. However, that leaves her land and herds without someone to care for and protect them. To that end as part of her consent to live here with us at Thistledown Hall, she asked me to come up with an acceptable list of my tenants and employees who would be willing to take on the care of her farm. Now, I know that you have worked very hard to be promoted to your current position, but I also know that you have many years’ experience with the running of a farm and the change in your social standing would be negligible. You would be essentially independent, with maybe one or two other laborers to tend the animals and assist you in the day to day operations.

“We can set up the particulars however you wish, but I propose to continue paying your current salary. Your daily food will come from the farm, and any necessary improvements to the cottage will be handled by me once you make them known so that you may live there comfortably. Come harvest time and in the seasonal selling of the extra produce at the market and cattle to the butchers, any profits will be divided equitably amongst yourself, the other workers, and Miss Shepherd as your landlord. You will be expected to keep an account book of all transactions and a journal of your choices regarding the layout of the fields and what crops you plant. She has provided me the information regarding the land’s current disposition for the last few years in order to help you plan for the future.”

Confirming Killian’s original, unbiased appraisal of him, the young footman gravely attends to his every word and hesitates before speaking. Graham’s family had been tenants on one of the estate’s smaller farms, a plot not dissimilar from Emma’s own lands; during a particularly bad winter nigh on ten years ago, a plague had swept through the kingdom, wiping out many. The young boy had been found just in time to save his limbs and digits from frostbite, but not soon enough to save his parents and siblings. At Killian’s insistence, he had been brought to the manor and installed in the stables to work with the horses; he knew from personal experience that the company of animals during times of intense misery and grief could be more restful and restorative to young minds than the company of fellow human beings. Thankfully, the lad had thrived and prospered until he was as he stood before his master now—a shy, but fully capable and intelligent young man.

“If it pleases you to change my station, then who am I to object, milord? Does the l-lady, Miss Shepherd know that you are asking me to see to her fields and flocks?”Killian feels a moment’s pity for the lad, knowing full well how torturous the burn of unrequited passion and affection; yet he cannot truly regret the decision he and Emma made in this regard. When he had put Graham forward as a candidate to be entrusted with her lands and explained the various benefits, she too had sighed in relief at the neat removal of the young man from everyday contact with her. Indeed, being the misguided, beloved object of another’s unreciprocated adoration taxes the spirit of a naturally kind and benevolent person; over time, such inclination to be compassionate and patient in the face of stubborn refusal to leave off unwanted or unwarranted adulation often transform to a particular disgust and disinclination to be empathetic or understanding.

“She does indeed, Graham. As I stated, I have discussed the matter thoroughly with her, and she has approved of many of my suggestions. I impressed upon her that you were ideally suited to care for both the land itself and the animals, given your affinity and comfort with horses and with labor in general. She remarked that you had exhibited a high degree of intelligence and care with regard to your charges the day that she was collected from her farm, and thus had every confidence that you would husband her resources well. You have worked hard and well for me and my family all these years, and I would see that service rewarded. But if you truly do not desire this change, then I will find a suitable replacement for you. What say you?”

* * *

 

_To Will Scarlet, Esq., Captain of the Prince’s Guard_

_Although I would have preferred some advanced warning in regards to their plotting, you will no doubt recall that we expected that the parliamentary leaders would make this move sooner or later. Do not beat yourself up over something that can no longer be changed, but rather focus your energies on matters that we yet have power over._

_First, I want a detailed report on the social and financial situations of Lady Drusilla Tremane and all of her immediate family members. I need a firm, documented understanding of her life and character; leave no stone unturned and spare no expense. If there is something detrimental, even a whiff of scandal or impropriety, I will need rock solid proof of its existence. Go back several generations if you have to, but I cannot afford to have anything untoward come to light after a decision regarding my future bride has already been made._

_Second, your report on Miss Emma Shepherd was far too thin for my liking, and I was already able to confirm through my brother that her parents received the land directly from my parents. I want any and all written accounts of that meeting forwarded to me. They had to have come from somewhere—find them!_

_If these combined tasks are too much for you to handle directly, the second search should be your priority and your best agent placed in charge of the first. I trust you to do your level best as always, my friend; but remember that more than my own happiness hangs in the balance of your discoveries._

_K. Rf._

* * *

 

_Report: Will Scarlet to Prince Killian Sonoian._

**_Excerpt from The Chronicles of King William I, of the House of Sonoian (Rex Annum 29)_ **

_And on the 14 th day of the Tenth month of the twenty-ninth year of his majesty’s reign, King William held a court of justice, granting leave for petitions to be brought forth unto his royal presence and decided upon at his pleasure…_

_And there also came unto the court a young man and a young woman, whose belly waxed round with child. Both of these personages humbled themselves before His Majesty and craved the boon of asylum and sanctuary from persecution and an audience in private with the King’s person. And being of a kind and indulgent disposition, our great sovereign did both grant them their application for safe passage and sojourn throughout his lands and did condescend to receive them in the Privy Chamber, amid the presence of his private secretary, Her Majesty Queen Matilda, and His Highness Prince William._

The official copy of chronicles ends here, providing no further reference to the couple or to the results of the private audience. As you impressed the import of this search upon me in your last letter, my lord, I do hope you will forgive the lengths I went to in order to produce the following enclosures.

**_Excerpt from the personal diary of Prince Liam Sonoian (Aged 12)_ **

_14.10.KWS29_

_Another court of justice today. Tedious business, but necessary all the same; for if a King cannot be appealed to as the highest mediator and distributor of justice in the land, then his position is empty and futile._

_One small matter of note occurred. A young man came with his lady, begging for a private audience. Father agreed quickly enough, and yet the pair presented him with quite the dilemma. Apparently, they had fallen madly in love against the advice and will of her father and step-mother, a matter further complicated by the fact that she is the heiress to a great deal of land and he is naught but farmer stock. Such arrant knavery and affrontery on his part to abuse and sully the noble bloodlines of a lady whose shoes he is not fit to carry! And for her to so forget her exalted station in life and the duties and responsibilities incumbent in her name and inheritance!_

_Had it been my choice, I would have the villein whipped and sentenced to hard labor for life! The lady should have been cloistered in a nunnery, and the child of such polluted lineage placed among the orphans of paupers so that she might never make pretensions to a higher station than the debased classes. Mother wept when I told her this later, saying that I did not yet understand enough to show the appropriate amount of compassion due to both of them. Perhaps that is true, but I still wouldn’t have gone out of my way to provide for them. If they had cared about a roof over their heads and a means to fill their bellies, they should have considered that before they embarked on their wicked liaison, married or not! When playing later with Milah and Killian, all she could do was sigh about how tragically beautiful the lady had appeared in her fine, yet worn gown, and about how pretty her baby would be. She must not remember how wrinkled and odorous Killian was when he first…_

**_Excerpt from the personal diary of King William Sonoian_ **

_… (14.10.29) act of mercy? Or is this an act of political expediency that I am cloaking behind a mask of charity and piety? In either case, it is clear from the size of Lady Snow’s belly alone that the couple cannot be parted by men or gods at the point. Her young Shepherd seems quite determined to protect her from the wrath of her parents, and I cannot help but admire his fervent devotion; there is something admirable and noble in his convictions, not that those very convictions were proof against the powers of seduction and love, of course. Regardless, I have chosen to help them for now and cannot unmake my promise._

_Memo: Send to the royal warden and sheriff to find an adequate parcel of land on which to place the family._

_Though the Lady swears it is yet early, I sense that the heir to the Duchy of Malfi shall be born sooner rather than later. Must see to it that they are settled as swiftly as possible. For now, they remain guests in our home, but lodged in the Swan Room at the opposite end of the palace. After all, their presence here as seekers of asylum requires the utmost discretion and secrecy, and even the most loyal of servants are prone to harmless gossip now and again…_

_22.10.29_

_The babe has been born. My wife and I have been asked to stand as guardians should the need ever arise, and what a story that will make some day should the Duke and his new Duchess not produce another child! Not a day old, and already the little Lady Emma has had quite the adventurous existence…_

**_Official Deed of Title, as entered on the Rolls of the King’s Household gifts and expenditures for the 29 th year of His Majesty’s reign_ **

_Three (3) Acres of land with one (1) cottage situated on the NW quadrant…etc., attached to the Royal Hunting Lodge commonly known as Thistledown Hall. This deed entitles the bearer to all rights and privileges accorded to owners of property, and furthermore exempts the bearer from all levies and taxations of chattel and goods. In the event of military conscription or invasion, the owner and bearer of this deed must report to the nearest town or village which maintains a garrison or detachment of the Royal Guards as required by the King’s law for owners of property, etc._

Note: I have anticipated your desire for knowledge and familiarized myself with the further particulars.

The Duchy of Malfi lies within The White Kingdom, just on our eastern border. As I am certain you are aware, my Lord, the principality is quite impressive and has been a much disputed territory in the past. The current Duchess, the Lady Regina is the wife of the deceased Duke Leopold; he died some time ago without other issue than the Lady Snow. As of this moment, Lady Regina retains the rights and revenues to all of the properties; however, she has refused several offers of marriage put forth by King George and has insisted that the Lady Snow not be declared legally dead. Should either eventuality come to pass, the Duchy would revert to the Crown or it would become her husband’s. She has continued to pay agents charged with discovering her step-daughter’s whereabouts.

As you already spoke to your brother on this matter, I feel obliged to inform you that His Majesty has had his own agents looking into the matter of Miss Emma Shepherd. They aren’t as good as I am, my Lord, but no doubt they will find her trail soon enough. I await further orders on how to proceed.

W. Scarlet

* * *

 

_Report: Will Scarlet to Prince Killian Sonoian_

_As yet there has been startlingly no progress regarding the investigation of the Lady Drusilla and the wider Tremane family. And I truly mean no progress, for my seconds have found absolutely no record of the family beyond this present generation. Her sister Lady Darla married James, Viscount of Midas several years ago; Lord Henry Tremane and Lady Cora Tremane’s marriage is mentioned in the Chronicle, but these are all the official notices and instances uncovered so far. I will redouble my efforts._

_W. Scarlet_

* * *

 

_To Will Scarlet, Esq., Captain of the Prince’s Guard_

_The situation regarding Malfi will no doubt be a delicate one all around, especially if it turns out that my father never made good on his promises to Lady Snow. Hearing that his grief overcame his kind nature in such a way is a personal blow, Will; but the political implications could be disastrous if it comes to light. Sound the Duchess out and make tentative overtures regarding the whereabouts of her step-granddaughter._

_K.Rf._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to keep things predominately within the OUAT universe, but I couldn’t resist using a literature-nerd reference with Malfi. Written by the particularly violent and bloodthirsty Jacobean playwright John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi is about a woman who marries a man who is her social inferior. Webster was a contemporary of both Shakespeare and Marlowe, though younger than both of the great tragedians. In the movie Shakespeare in Love, a young Webster is cast as Ethel the pirate’s daughter (Romeo’s less well-known first love) and fired by Shakespeare before rehearsals begin.


	10. Chapter 10

When given time to pause and reflect upon the matter—a rare occurrence, as her nights are just as fulfilling and engaging as her days—Emma realizes that never before in her life has each moment been so thoroughly ripened and enjoyed. The long distant, rosy-hued hours of her childhood gave way to hard, unyielding minutes and seconds of back-breaking toil. While she had never descended to the misery of abject poverty of so many other friendless farmers, she had managed the impressive feat of keeping body both fed and clothed; but in ensuring her own survival, the nurture of her spirit and uplifting of her soul had not been taken much into account. She had always reveled in any task that allowed her to commune with nature, but the death of her parents rendered her affinity with the soil and season into a vital necessity and not an activity enjoined for its own sake. She endured and survived, but she never thrived. Nor indeed did she ever take her future happiness into account, her only forethought going into which crops to plant where and how best to feed her sheep and chickens.

 

Thus, at the beginning of her second month as Sophia’s governess and Killian’s mistress, she found herself in the heretofore unknown position of possessing the leisure to both reflect on her recent past and anticipate her approaching future. She had never given thought to having a child of her own, much less contemplated whether or not she possessed the desire to become a mother nor her own fitness to such a daunting, beautiful task. Once the train of thought presented itself, she immediately began to examine her own experience as a daughter. Right up until her husband’s death in the war, Emma believed that Snow had been quite near perfection as a mother; indeed, she had never been placed in a position where her two roles as wife and as caregiver to her child had ever been opposed to each other. However, when confronted with the reality of a possibly long life lived without her beloved spouse, Snow had most definitively discovered that without her true love and soul mate, continued existence and the support and care of her daughter weighed very little in the balance.

 

Her mother had, of course, never admitted as much out loud; in truth, after receiving the news of David’s demise, she had said comparatively little in the ensuing years. It was as if all color, light, and brighter emotions had perished along with him, as though in that one moment, Emma had lost both parents in a single killing blow. Only with her encounter with Sophia and subsequent introduction to Killian had such possibilities returned to her; not because Emma required a man in her bed or a child to care for to bring happiness back into her life, but because she herself had been closed off and had protected herself from feeling and wanting and needing joy. For in her limited experience, love and happiness were fleeting, yet sorrow and pain were infinite; so she feared pleasure in nearly all of its guises—reluctant to feel good only to feel agony—and always sought the means of embittering or forestalling her few delights.

 

Where fate did not present such opportunities for sabotage, Emma managed to discover excuses; however, at the beginning of that second month of her residence as governess and mistress, the eighth and hottest month of the year, Francine, that wonderful repository of servants’ gossip, had been the first to inform her of the King’s impending visit to Thistledown Hall. Emma had quite naturally found the prospect of royal scrutiny to be daunting in the extreme, but more unsettling to her mind was the uninhibited passion and bliss she found in Killian’s bed. Her mind drifted back to the first night in his rooms, to the first night they had discovered how well matched they were in their willingness to experiment with those “alternative paths to pleasure” to which he had made reference…to so many overwhelming and delightful firsts…

 

_Suddenly shy and uncertain of herself after her short speech, Emma totally immerses herself in pleasuring Killian. She opens her mouth and relaxes her throat, swiftly taking every glorious inch of his cock as far back as she can, and is rewarded by her name falling from his lips like a curse and a prayer. A darted glance from beneath her lowered lids reveals his dark head thrown back, eyes closed in ecstasy, mouth parted and gasping for breath. When she can take no more and swallows around the hot, velvety shaft before taking in air, a primal sound somewhere between a moan and a growl vibrates through his chest and into her. She relaxes her throat again, slowly letting go of his thick length and swirling her tongue to map the fine differences in texture and heat and to gauge his responses._

_She pulls back only to thrust forward again, careful neither to gag nor in anyway resist his penetration. She breathes deep, inhaling and savoring the slightly bitter, musky, and inherently Male scent of his arousal and his body. Yet for all the primal desire raging through the both of them, the primitive and carnal need of this moment, it is she who possesses him—she who holds all power, even in her eagerness to please and delight him. He moves cautiously, thrusting his hips forward gently so that she may easily anticipate his motions. Desperate for air, yet still greedy for his enjoyment, she wraps her hand as far around the base of his cock as possible; one hand over the other, she strokes his slickened shaft, alternatively sucking and licking at the bright red crown. “Gods, Emma! I want to tie you to my bed and spend hours inside your mouth!”_

_She hums in satisfaction, hearing the tremor of need in his voice and with it the truth of his words. She pauses in her fondling to take him deep once more, spreading more of her saliva and the beaded moisture that had seeped from the tip of his cock as she had suckled and teased him. “But that’s not all you want me tied up for. Tell me, Killian. Tell me all your desires, knowing that I want you too. I am a blank slate when it comes to bed sport; share with me your wicked thoughts.”_

_“I want to tie you up in my bed and keep you there for days! I promise to be kind and take care of all your needs. I’ll fuck you senseless, drive you mad with wanting my cock and wanting me to come. You will come over and over again, but you will have to earn each orgasm of mine. I’ll bathe you with my tongue, with soft cloths and then smooth your skin with scented oils. I’ll feed you delicacies and give you sweet wine to drink, but you won’t be allowed to leave me—to leave my bed.”_

_And all without guile, Emma had uncovered his deepest need and his darkest fear where she was concerned. He gave her his body and his experience; while she could deny him anything that caused her discomfort or distress, he only asked that she never leave his bed with either of them yet unsatisfied. He had married for love and been a devoted spouse, but something had quite clearly gone horribly wrong for Killian. While she had never known the secrets of her parents’ bedchamber, Emma knew that they had been both in love and sexually compatible. In the prince’s case, there had obviously been something between husband and wife which had disconnected the one from the other, and whatever it was had left Killian scarred, broken, and wanting. His own needs and desires had been so neglected and so denied that the idea of fulfilling them left him in pain and feeling ashamed._

_Emma pulled back, looking up at him with honest sympathy in her eyes. Reverently, she placed a kiss to each of his hipbones before resting her head against his thigh, an embrace both innocent and intimate. “I cannot promise you perfection. But never be shamed by what you want or what you feel. If you ask anything of me, I will try; if you need anything of me, do not be afraid that I will turn you away. We may never have uninterrupted days to devote to such pleasures, but the thought of being tied to your bed arouses me more than I can say. I will not be denied being frightened by the power of what I feel and how deeply I yearn to please you, but trust me with your desires, Killian, and I will trust you with my life and body.”_

_Unable to resist the urge to see him and gage his response, she finally lifts her gaze to his face, rewarded with the sight of his whole face relaxed in an expression of peace and wonderment. His hand hovers in the air above her head as if he yearns to touch her and yet fears that to do so would shatter the illusion. With a gentle, knowing smile, Emma presses a kiss to his palm before taking his hand in hers and leading him toward the bed. Without taking her eyes from his, she crawls backward onto the smooth, cool sheets and sprawls against the mounded pillows. She keeps her body open and bare, trembling at her own wanton daring, yet not yielding to any coy modesty or shyness that would bid her cover and conceal the flesh that aches and burns for his possession…_

 

Emma cannot hold back the moan that vibrates low in her throat and then throughout her body at the memories, a sound which brings her back to the present moment of frustration both mental and carnal. Having made certain that Francine has Sophia’s nap time well in hand, Emma resolutely marches down to the library that serves as Killian’s study. The mellow, hushed tones of Thistledown’s steward and the prince’s responses reach her ear quickly enough to warn her to pause a moment to collect herself—unless some emergency regarding Sophia were concerned, she should exhibit no signs of heightened emotion or flushed distress, which would naturally lead to the idle chatter of loose tongues. She takes several deep breaths before advancing toward the open doors and politely coughing to alert the men to her presence.

Killian sits behind his desk, dark head bent over a mess of ledgers and papers that no doubt detail the elaborate inner workings of the vast estate he calls home. While she has been sharing his bed for a month now, seeing him thus pointedly reminds her that he is more than just lord of one manor, more than just Sophia’s father, more than just the man who worships her with his body every night. The scraps of paper take on their true colors as letters from kings and counts, from foreign courts as well as domestic pleas for justice. He has never looked more distant and regal than he does in this precise moment.

 

But then his head comes up and his eyes lock upon her and, though the change in his expression is nearly indecipherable, his gaze softens and becomes something more approachable. The commanding, noble bearing remains, yet gone is any trace of the cold, forbidding aura of the majestic power that ever flows through his veins.

 

Mr. Fairfax continues his thought from his position sitting on the other side of the Prince’s desk before realizing that he no longer holds the entirety of his lord’s attention. She drops into a correct, unimpeachably dignified curtsy once both gentlemen have turned their heads toward her. “Your Highness, Mr. Fairfax, my apologies to you both for interrupting, but I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time, my Lord.”

 

The fondness in his smile is unmistakable, for it only ever appears when the subject of his daughter is brought up—and, less noticeably by all parties concerned, whenever Emma comes into view or mind. “My precious offspring is napping you mean, thus leaving you for the nonce free to attend to other matters. I know all too well just how fleeting these moments of respite can be. We can continue with my correspondence later, Fairfax; just make certain that my instructions for Will go out as soon as possible.”

 

Killian follows the older man toward the doors while Emma advances further into the room and away from any prying eyes in the hallway. She finds herself drawn to his workspace, curious as to the origin of every scrap of parchment, every blob of wax and the seals impressed into them. So many different places and people whose names would have little to no meaning for her, but all of whom are tied to the Prince in some way—as if for every letter writer there is a different version or facet of the man she knows so intimately.

 

A part of her mind registers the sound of the doors being closed and locked, so she does not startle when she hears his soft approaching footfalls on the carpet, but she does shiver when she feels the heat of his body all along her back. He does not touch her—simply enjoys being close to her and knowing that she has developed such a keen, heightened sensual awareness of him. “I doubt Fairfax is in a position to know the precise meaning of it, but there’s a faint and pale flush to your cheeks and across your lovely collarbones, Emma. I can only think of two reasons why your creamy skin would be blushing so, my dear. Would you like me to hazard a guess--?”

 

“I can’t do this, Killian. I can’t act as Sophia’s governess any longer.”

 

The hand that had been skimming the air above her shoulder and her arm suddenly stills and then clenches tightly into a fist, knuckles turning to white. The nose that had been brushing gently behind her ear halts, and she can hear his sharp, hissing intake of breath. Whatever he had expected her to say, what she just said was not it.

 

“You’ve been here just a month and yet you already have adjudged yourself to be what? Incapable of teaching my daughter? Or is there something  _else_  you no longer desire?”

 

Emma dares a glance over her shoulder, but his expression is unreadable once more, distant and cold and arrogant. She moves toward the window, watching insects and birds dart to and fro among the plants and flowers of the garden and the motes of dust caught between the golden sunbeams. “I cannot teach her to be a lady; yes, there are certain skills that I can impart to her, but I am not formally educated. You and your brother no doubt had the best tutors at your disposal and your daughter deserves no less. I’ve never been to court, so I can’t teach her all she’ll need to know about politics and intrigues. The king will spend five minutes with her and realize that you’ve lost your senses and hired a complete and utter fraud--”

 

He places a hand on her shoulder and spins her toward him, grabbing her and shaking her gently before bracketing her face between his palms. “So we come to the crux of your fears! Emma love, if I did not believe in your knowledge and your capabilities, I never would have entrusted Sophia to you in any capacity. I have not told you this, but since the moment I met you, I have believed that you were born for more than the life of a common farmer. I know nothing for certain—just what I feel in my gut to be true. Your parents may be gone, but they left their stamp on you, Emma. You may not have been to court, but the effortless grace with which you move, your poise and posture no matter the situation, the elegance and refinement in every line and curve of your form… I am convinced that no matter how they choice to live and end their days, one or both of them began in more exalted circumstances.

 

“And just by being around her, by walking and talking and breathing and being, you are showing her how to behave and comport herself like a lady of her station. But you are also teaching her the basics of time management and estate management. She may not be able to make her own herbals and distill soaps and perfumes as she gets older, but in teaching her these practical skills you show her where such things come from, the labor and care that go into maintaining and managing a household, and the value of a day productive and well-spent. And yes, I will need to bring in scholars to train and educate her intellect more thoroughly, but I would rather shelter her from the wider world for a little while longer. Royal children occupy a very precarious position, Emma; they belong to the people from the instant they are born until the moment they shut their eyes for the last time. My brother and I were not truly allowed to be children, to be anything other than dutiful, responsible sons of the kingdom; and I wanted something better for my daughter and have fought tooth and nail for years to give her these carefree days.”

 

The intensity of his commitment to his daughter and the depth of his belief in her rock her to the core. His words raise once more the spectre of her mist-shrouded origins, bringing to mind the hundreds of questions that were never answered because she had never had the courage or the inclination to speak them aloud and how all possible discovery of answers were buried with her mother. But it is his conviction, his absolute faith in her as a guide and companion for the most adored and precious person in his life that melts her heart and makes her yearn for this man all the more.

 

Without taking a moment to reflect on the fact that though the main doors are locked there are other entrances to the library, without pausing to remind herself that they must be entirely circumspect in all of their interactions, and without acknowledging that they mutually decided that their liaison ran a greater risk of exposure should they not confine their carnal activities to his bedroom and the night, Emma molds her chest to his and kisses him fiercely. Killian freezes for only a fraction of a moment before his arms twine around her back and removes the little remaining distance between them. She keens and whimpers at the obvious heat and hardness of his arousal, desperate yet wordless demands to be taken, to be filled, to be ravished.

 

Her lips trail across his jaw and up to his ear, where she catches the lobe between her teeth and nips and sucks on the tender, responsive flesh. Her breath is hot, yet he shivers convulsively. “So there  _was_  another reason for the rosy flush of your skin when you first entered!”

 

His dark chuckle vibrates along her skin, heightening her arousal even further. “I was hoping that one day you would decide to come to me, but I didn’t dare presume…”

 

Emma places a finger across his lips, eyes open and staring at him in absolute puzzled wonderment. “And why should you not presume to summon your mistress when the need strikes you to be thoroughly and wantonly sated? I know that my first day here—that encounter in the nursery was a moment of abandon and reckless insanity. But Killian…I thought I made it plain that you can trust me with any secret desire, any previously forbidden fantasies you wish to indulge. And in turn I promised to trust that whatever we do will bring us both pleasure and to trust you to keep my reputation in mind. You have not given me cause to doubt you.”

 

“And yet you question my sanity over my decision to make you Sophia’s governess?”

 

“ _That_  is entirely a question of  _my_  suitability to be teaching a Princess how to behave like a lady of pedigree and privilege.”

 

“Well, I certainly hope you don’t intend of teaching her just yet about the proper reception of her gentlemanly suitors in the boudoir. She is only 4 after all, despite being quite precocious.”

 

Emma slaps his chest, mouth open in semi-mock-horror. “For shame! That lesson can wait for some years to come, and no doubt by then she will have another governess more suited to teaching her all that is entailed by her position as Princess and noblewoman.”

 

“If I had my way, she’d never grow a day older or need to learn any of these things; she and you and I would happily spend each day together as if we hadn’t a care or a burden or a duty in the world. And anytime not spent with her would be spent with just the two of us, preferably naked.” Killian catches her hand just before it makes contact with his chest for a second time, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her palm.

 

“So, my wicked temptress, since your desire brought you to my door, what is it that you yearn for? What debauched and decadent thoughts are swirling behind your siren’s eyes?” They had learned together fairly early on in their carnal encounters that both found it arousing and titillating to verbalize their needs and desires to one another, either as an adjunct to foreplay or to heighten the entire experience. So, Emma is unsurprised by his willingness to fulfill whatever fantasy she may share and the obvious and open longing for her to express her desires in detail. Her eyes flick to the luxurious leather chair that sits behind his desk and to the littered workspace itself, seeing them wantonly wrapped around each other.

 

With a salacious grin, she spins him around and pushes him to sit in his appropriate position for dealing with business. She lifts her gown high above her thighs, straddles her legs on either side of his, and perches herself in his lap. Emma doesn’t usually act the aggressor during their sensual play, but in her choosing this place and moment, Killian does not in the least mind surrendering himself over to her possibly less than tender mercy. She takes his left hand in her right, lacing their fingers together and pressing palm to palm; her eyes and seemingly her thoughts remain on their joined hands, caught in the hot, yellow light pouring in through the windows.“I couldn’t stop thinking about our first real night together…and then about having your hands on my body.”

 

“And just where and how on your luscious, divine body would you like my hands, my dear Emma? Shall I obey your every command, or do I have leave to touch and caress you as I think will please you best? Be my goddess, and I a lowly novice desiring only to worship you?” He gasps as the hand wandering up her stockinged leg reaches the desire-flushed bare skin just above her garter, never losing his wonder and engrossment in just how tender and silky her flesh becomes when heated by carnal musings. He brushes a kiss across their interlaced knuckles before reaching to support the back of her head, drawing her long throat forward. Emma releases her own shocked breath when his right thumb brushes over her wet core and his mouth begins to lave and suck her sensitive neck.

 

Enjoying the sensation of being thoroughly ravished by these relatively innocent touches, her eyes flutter shut and her mind barely notices the world outside the window. And yet a part of her must not only see, but also infer and begin to comprehend what it is she saw, for her eyes startle open and her body becomes rigidly unresponsive in Killian’s arms. “Emma? What’s wrong dearest?”

 

Without a word she disentangles their bodies, but not their hands, and drags him with her to the window. She looks right and left at the bleached blue sky, searching for some sign of what she’s certain she saw. “There! Look at the number of birds flocking south! I don’t recall seeing so--”

 

Killian tucks an imaginary curl behind her ear, more concerned about her than he has ever been before. “Birds fly south for the winter all the time, Emma. So there are a few more than usual; what could possibly be so distracting about that?”

 

He reaches for her again, pulling her in his arms and lifting her chin so he can see her face more openly. Her eyes glaze in distracted thought and not with the passion of only moments agone. He leans down to kiss her lips, but though hers are parted there is not response to him as her thoughts continue to whirl somewhere other than the present. “We were discussing your body’s desire for mine, love. May we return the subject to more pleasurable avenues than the seasonal migratory habits of birds?”

 

“Seasonal! You are a genius, my love! Follow me! I have my father’s journals for the farm in my room!” Without waiting for a response and pressing a hard, swift kiss to his lips, Emma drags him along behind her. She unlocks the doors to the library, destroying their privacy and any chance of a more heatedly intimate interlude. While his brain cannot precisely recall anything other than his amorous thoughts and his petulance at having been denied a rare embrace with his beloved, nor has he quite registered her use of a previously avoided endearment, part of him registers the oddity they must present to anyone else roaming the corridors of the manor; for it is not often that one may see a simple governess and farmer’s daughter commanding about the son of a king and compelling him to follow her as if he were an errant schoolboy.

 

They reach her room and Emma begins frantically pawing through a small wardrobe trunk tucked in the corner near the more spacious piece of furniture provided to store her clothes and such. A few swatches of fabric fly through the air behind her, careless landing and piling themselves upon one another; assorted notions—buttons, ribbons, spools of thread and such—quickly follow. Suddenly, Killian can hardly hear the rapid turning of pages over the pounding of his heart; a garment, flimsy and pale ivory arrests nearly all of his attention. Indeed, if not for the fact that a thimble tumbled down the mound of fabric to the floor, he would have never recognized that he had certainly seen this particular shift before and the dark stain marring the otherwise perfect cloth. Unaware of the shift of his thoughts and his occupation on some other line of reasoning, Emma continues to riffle through the small collection of leather-bound volumes.

 

She finally gasps, still absorbed in the pages before her eyes and whatever information is contained therein. “Here! My gods, Killian! You have to tell others; you have to warn everyone!”

 

“Slow down, Emma! What am I warning people about? What’s going on?”

 

Her face is pale and troubled, a frantic earnestness filling her eyes. “Ten years ago, there was a particularly bad winter; do you remember it?”

 

“The one that came early and killed thousands, only to leave even more thousands to starve? It was hard to forget, love.”

 

“Well I’m almost certain that it will happen again! My father kept a journal of the farm, plotting out that year’s yields and such. But he also kept a record of the weather and anything out of the ordinary. Right now, it’s just the beginning of the eighth month—still firmly summertime—and yet massive numbers of birds are already heading south for the winter. See here for the same date as today: ‘Wheat still a month from ripe. More than 50 flights of various birds spotted.’ And again, over and over, he reports at least that many flocks passing over head. And then, for the ninth month: ‘Snows fell unexpectedly. Most crops utterly destroyed. Tavern that night—same all over the kingdom.’ It’s happening again, Killian! You have to get your people in the field now! You have to send out letters to the entire countryside, or the kingdom will starve again!”

 

* * *

 

_To King William II, etc.,_

_Dear brother, forgive me for the brevity and short tone of this missive. I have it upon good authority that we will have a harsh and early winter. I will send a more thorough report at length, but I must insist that you send out a warning and a command to every royal farm in the kingdom. The crops must be harvested now, or as soon as possible, or we may face yet another winter like the one weathered ten years ago during father’s reign. Consult the chronicles and other almanacs as you must. I am informing all of my lands and tenants to be prepared._

_With humble obedience and affection,_

_Killian R.F._


	11. Chapter 11

Emma’s definitive pronouncement about the impending early winter causes an uproar and a flurry of frantic activity in the normally productive yet placid household and lands of Thistledown Hall. While it would be normal to see couriers steadily arriving and leaving to send out the Prince’s various correspondence, the sheer number of liveried riders racing away to far off cities has never before been matched as far as living memory can recall. Upon hearing her account of her father’s journal, Killian had immediately conscripted her to help himself, Mr. Fairfax, and the steward’s clerk in writing out fair copies of the warning to be sent throughout the countryside. He had dictated the wording of the message and from there the four of them had labored tirelessly to produce as many letters as humanly possible; no sooner had the ink been sanded and dried, but there was a messenger ready and waiting to receive his copies and the locations to which he was supposed to deliver them.

Yet in their haste to get the warning out, neither Killian nor Emma had forgotten Sophia; with a single look that spoke to the rapport established between them, she had called for one of the maids to inform Francine of the situation and for her to bring the child to them once she had finished her nap. Upon reaching the library, Sophia had gasped in a combined fright and awe to see the heretofore pristine space transformed by the superabundance of candles and the milling crowd of couriers surrounding her father and the other writers.  Killian’s head shoots up at the sound, somehow heard over the press and noise of so many bodies, and quickly waves for his daughter to come join him at his desk; the fact that he would normally put down his work and get up from his chair instinctively alerts the bright girl to the gravity of the situation. Never before has he allowed his work or his station in the kingdom to prevent or distract him from his responsibilities and care as a father.

And though it pains him, he knows that more lives are at risk than can be countenanced—he must put the good of the kingdom before the emotional needs of his only child; compromise has never before taken upon itself such an ugly, abhorrent visage to him. Sensing her distress when she approaches him, Killian quickly wraps his arms about Sophia and lifts her into his lap so that she can see the pages scattered upon his desk. “What’s wrong, Papa?”

Her quavering, childish voice poignantly reminds him of how very, very young she is and that he needs to show no fear—he is her only rock in this world and he cannot fail her. “You know that Papa and you are very important people in this kingdom, yes? Well, my little love, there are times when being important means doing what is best for everyone. I have made a promise to you, that you will always come first—and in my heart, you always will be. According to Miss Emma, the snow and cold of winter are going to be coming sooner this year, and we do not think that other people in the kingdom know about this. There are probably some people like Miss Emma, who know how to read the signs in nature and who know that winter will be early, but they may not be as important as you and me so others may not listen to them. Papa and Miss Emma and Mr. Fairfax—we are sending letters to your Uncle Liam and to other important people to let them know to start the harvest now, so that when winter comes, we will have all the crops in and the animals safe in their barns.

“And we need to do this very quickly, because we don’t know exactly when the storms and cold will arrive. If we work very hard for the rest of the day and tomorrow, then we can let everyone in the kingdom know what is happening, but that means that I won’t be able to spend time with you for the next few days, nor will Miss Emma. You will still have Francine to play with you, but you will not see me or Miss Emma for play or at meals. Do you understand, my Sophia?”

Though her lower lip had begun to tremble, her chin takes on the hard, stubborn line that he knows all too well. She places her hands on his cheeks, relentlessly searching his eyes as if reading his very soul; once more, he is struck by her uncanny knowledge of the world around her and her wisdom. “I understand. As much as I love to play with you, Papa, there are people who need your help; and if something bad happens to those people, it would make you very sad and that would make me very sad. I’ll miss you and Miss Emma, but I know that you aren’t going far and that you are helping our people.”

The room around them had become earnestly silent, a kind of hushed awe generated by the queenly qualities and comprehension of this young innocent; for those not so intimately acquainted with royalty, they become aware for the first time of the genuine sacrifice and duty bred into those who lead by right of blood and birth; for the rest, a sense of pride and reassurance swells at watching their Princess so maturely and willingly accept that cost despite her tender years. And so wrapped up is the pair in their own cocoon of love and affection, both for each other and for their people, that neither notices the watching stillness of their audience. Emma herself is on the verge of tears—her heart aching for the devoted father and the dutiful Prince, for the adoring daughter and the compassionate Princess—yet she manages the others in the room with a few flicks of her wrists, bidding everyone be active so that the pair need not feel awkward at having their private moment so disturbed.

She continues to make her copies with a focused dedication that might seem suspicious were one to not note the moisture at the corners of her eyes and the look of intense distraction upon her face; whatever thoughts pass through her mind, they certainly do not reside with the words that flow from her pen to the page. Rather, she is absorbed in analyzing her own feelings, the emotions that pressed in upon her heart when listening to and watching Killian with Sophia. There had been an aching loneliness and envy—an orphan’s lament at either not remembering or never having been the object of such parental devotion; there had been a fierce pride in these royal beings that she had come to see as human—that flawed and weak as any other, the father and daughter still find within themselves the strength to do what is best for the many; and also a different kind of pride in having been given the chance to come to know these lofty mortals. But the most surprising, the most shockingly breathtaking of all the feelings to assault her in those moments? A fiery, consuming, undeniable love.

The height and depth and breadth of her own devotion and adoration for both Killian and Sophia swept her off balance and struck her nearly blind and dumb. She had quite naturally been concerned about the disruption of her charge’s routine and lessons, but she also finds herself extremely bothered by the possibility that Sophia would feel wounded or neglected by her and Killian’s necessary absence, worrying that she might be too young to fully comprehend the reasons for that temporary separation and be significantly injured by it. Nor had she truly forgotten the interrupted interlude between herself and her lover. She had not meant to abandon their passion for one another, and certainly a part of her had known and recognized that her Prince’s dedication to his responsibilities and his peoples’ welfare would always taken precedence over his amorous attentions to her; yet she fretted and was apprehensive that he might have misconstrued her momentary inattention which had led to their current predicament and flurry of activity.

Emma longs to go over to his desk and most emphatically reassure him that her desires and affections have not adversely altered or diminished in any respect—quite the opposite, rather—however, doing so in the midst of preventing a crisis and in a room full of idle, curious observers serves neither of them. A gentle, but insistent tap upon her shoulder breaks her mind’s absorption, and she finds Sophia patiently waiting for her undivided attention. Although she has known the girl to have an open and affectionate nature, it still surprises her when the child climbs up into her lap, compelling Emma to wrap her arms in a tight embrace around the little body. A further shock strikes her when Sophia does the same as she did with her father and places her hands on Emma’s face. “Make certain that Papa and you and Mr. Fairfax stops to eat something—they  _always_  forget when anything important like this happens. I’ll miss you, but I know that Papa needs you more than I do. Take care of him, please.”

She pulls Sophia closer and holds onto her tighter, once more near to tears at the gentle, innocent affection of the child and the way her own feeling wrench at her heart. Certainly naïve and unaware of the nature of Emma’s relationship with her father, Sophia yet knows her well enough and trusts her with the Prince’s well-being—a trust of which Emma has every intention of being worthy. “I promise to make sure they take a rest. Can you and Francine help with that and let cook know to send in some rolls and cold meats? Something light and quick that they can eat easily by the fire?”

A grave nod of her head, followed by a quick spring from Emma’s lap to the ground, and Sophia proceeds to her nanny, waiting patiently for her charge by the door. With renewed joy and hope and something indefinable in her heart, Emma goes back to work copying out the letters of warning and crossing off courier routes as the messengers depart. And yet a part of her remains fixed, not on the pending catastrophe, but upon observing Killian and laying plans for when they have a moment’s respite.

 

* * *

 

Several times throughout the afternoon and well into the evening hours, the servants had come into the library to set new candles in the wall sconces and various candelabra placed on or near the desks where the warnings were being rapidly reproduced. Others had arrived bearing cool tea and fruit juices, as the heat of the day combined with the myriad flames had made the room nearly unbearably hot, and bringing simple snacks to help fuel the writers’ efforts. Killian had finally called a halt to the flow of documents and couriers, deeming that everyone needed rest to continue the work tomorrow. However, quite expectedly, he had refused to budge from his desk, insisting on finishing a more detailed letter for the King so that it could be sent out immediately at dawn. All of the order and tidiness that had reigned over his desk that morning was now utter chaos as letters and ledgers had been carelessly piled atop one another to make way for fresh, clean pages of paper, newly cut quills, and the broached and drained bottles of ink. Mr. Fairfax had left the room the instant his employer released him to his rest; Emma had herself put up a mere token of resistance, but only because it suited her to pretend to retire for the evening.She had gone to her bedroom merely long enough to slip into a nightrail and dressing gown before abandoning all thought of seeking sleep and respite alone.

Just as the clocks throughout the house begin to chime the midnight hour, Emma stealthily makes her way down to the kitchens to gather the means to make a simple meal and then just as quietly goes back up to the library. Bright light spills from the single open door into the hallway, leaving deep pools of menacing, impenetrable darkness to either side; the comforting glow calls to her, whispering intimately of the safety, shelter, and companionship to be found within. Unconsciously, she quickens her pace in order to reach that haven sooner than her caution would have allowed for; yet her haste and presence unnoticed by all in the house, including the only other person awake and the library’s sole occupant.

The warm, still air of the room adds to the homey glow, the sense of perfect peace promised by the light that had pierced the black of night; Killian’s presence enhances her sense of safety, of happiness despite his decidedly grim preoccupation with his task. Emma quietly shifts the tray to her hip, shuts the door and flips the lock into place before moving toward his desk. It is only when she places the food on the cluttered surface that his absorption with writing breaks and he registers her presence. She notices the deep shadows of unhappiness and exhaustion beneath his eyes and feels a pang of sympathy strike her chest. Without pause, she goes directly to him and sits on his lap; his arms open and wrap around her waist as if this were ritual and the most commonplace of actions between them. Killian rests his brow against her chest, and Emma unthinkingly begins to card her fingers through his hair—nails scratching at his scalp, fingertips seeking hardened knots of tension and stress along his neck.

“You have done your duty for your people and more today, my lord. Yes, there is more work to be done—and there always will be—but for now you need to refresh yourself with food and sleep.” Although he does not raise his head, Emma feels his mouth turn up in a grin against the fabric of her gown and robe.

“And can the patient proscribe the same for his physician? You labored just as tirelessly as I today, dearest. Truly, your efforts gave us an entire day’s worth of letters and warnings; who knows how many more people have another day to get in the harvest? How many lives we may have spared or saved by letting the kingdom and countryside know one day sooner? None of this would have been possible without you, Emma. You are without a doubt the most amazing woman I have ever known.” Her cheeks begin to glow rosy and she attempts to shift away from him to collect a morsel from the tray, but his arms lock tighter about her and prevent her motion.

“I’m being quite serious, love. You are remarkable. And yes, I will consent to being dragged from my desk and my letter to Liam so long as you are the one commanding my attention.” His right hand had begun a slow slide up her back and over her shoulder while he was speaking and now it lightly rests just at the collar of her robe over where her heart beats and trips rapidly. Tenderly and delicately, his fingers brush against the small triangle of bare skin directly below the hollow of her throat and slowly slide the sides of the fabric apart.

“You need food more than you need me.” Her admonishment comes out quite stern in spite of the airy distraction that quavers in her voice, and in any other situation, he might agree with her. Yet for all his earlier devotion to carrying out his responsibilities, Killian remains a man and one with his own selfish wants and needs at that; his body hungers in a multitude of ways, but the overriding urge at this point of his day remains fixed upon satisfying Emma’s neglected desires. His roaming hand finally succeeded in revealing the thin linen of her nightgown—a soft, delicate fabric dyed a dusky rose that compliments the pale cream of her skin and the green of her eyes to perfection; the only question that lingers in his mind about this particular garment is whether or not she knows that he picked it out precisely because the color matches the lush pink of her nipples when she’s aroused.

“You see, that’s where you are wrong, my dear. We find ourselves once more in sole possession and occupation of a capacious room and an extended period of privacy. I am fairly certain that it is sufficiently dark outside that nothing should appear to distract us from the vitally necessary revelation of what carnal rites you and I shall be embarking on for your delectation.” Two languorous, yet determined tugs later, the bow tied in the belt of her robe and the one secured at the top of her shift come undone and a second wandering hand joins its mate in delineating and discovering the curves and lines of Emma’s body: the long sweep of thigh, the rounded angle of a shoulder. With an unhurried fervor, Killian peels the fabric away from her flesh and uncovers aching, impatient skin to his gaze and touch.

Her breaths become panting, melodious sighs—unconscious, unrelenting entreaties for more. “I find that mere food, lovely no doubt though the bread and fruits and cheeses you brought may be, pales in comparison to bringing you pleasure and watching you transform into a goddess when I make you come. Tell me you thoughts, Emma love. Share all your wicked needs with me.”

And disparate though her desires may be from the tender reverence of his caress, no trepidation nor fear enters her heart or mind; her lover will be whatever she requires him to be. She spears her fingers through his hair, tugging harshly on the short strands, and angles his head for a deep, plundering kiss. Her lips force his apart, and she determinedly sucks at the lower lip, nipping it hard more than once. He moves with her, not engaging in a duel, but letting her lead where she yearns for him to follow. Just as quickly as the kiss began, she pulls away with another deliberate bite. “When I walked into the library this afternoon, it was because I remember the very first fantasy that you shared with me. My intention was to make your first dream of me come true. But now, having watched you wield your authority, observed you commanding others and dictating the life and death of the masses, I want you right here. Don’t move a single page! I want you to remember—every time that you sit here to issue some decree or hammer out the details of some treaty—that you had me spread out across this desk for your pleasure. I want to know that you’ll think of this always; I want to know that you will send these pages off somewhere far away, and that no one save the two of us will know that we fucked on top of them.”

A devious, smug grin stretches his lips—a cunning look with which Emma becomes everyday more familiar and which she now associates with his exceptionally erotic and pleasurable creativity. His hands now meander from their previous occupation with her shoulders and breasts down her sides to further bunch the soft linen of her nightgown up around her waist, and then curving around her hips and firmly gripping the soft globes of her ass. In one fluid motion, he lifts her and rises from his chair, gently placing her on the edge of his desk and kneeling before her like a supplicant; with tender caresses, he coaxes her thighs wider and slips her legs over his shoulders, pressing kisses to the inside of each knee and dragging his lips closer and closer to her uncovered, quivering sex. Without any prompting, she leans back on her elbows and shrugs her robe and nightrail off her shoulders, baring her breasts to his hot gaze and her own arousing touch. The first time he had commanded her to pleasure himself in front of him, her movements had been shy yet far from uncertain; no such timidity remains between them, and Killian has even been forced to reprimand her for stroking and fondling herself while it had been prohibited to her by their play and his express command.

Watching her knead and mound one of her breasts and pinch the already dark rose, engorged nipple of the other, while never once looking away from his face has become the single most carnal and inspiriting sight he’s ever seen. Over the past month of his tutorship, her sensuality has grown, become refined and enhanced by their shared experiences; where before she had enjoyed simple appeasement of the senses, now she revels in exploring new sensations and delights, thoroughly enjoys the lavish and wanton decadence Killian has revealed to her. In this, they both possess a certain amount of luck in having found and accepted the blatantly sexual attraction between them—for each, the pleasure and satisfaction of their partner is paramount, creating a perpetual cycle of seeking to outdo the other in attaining heretofore unknown peaks of bliss and ecstasy. In those fraught, silent moments, every deity is thanked and the universe praised, while the lovers’ eyes consume the object of their greatest desire.

It only takes a single flick of his tongue through her moist folds and a careful suckle of her clit before she comes for him, warm juices flowing into his mouth as she gasps and spasms, head thrown back as her orgasm rushes through her with unexpected intensity. He cannot hold back the masculine pride that bursts from him in a low chuckle that has her writhing even more for him. His left arm draws her thigh more securely to his shoulder, draping over her hip and low across her belly; his tongue delves deep into her still trembling core and his nose brushes through the honey-gold curls of her mound. Killian opens his eyes, unsure precisely when he had closed them to more luxuriously indulge his taste and smell. Emma’s head is still bowed back, arcing her chest so that her pert breasts are thrust high into the air; her flesh shivers, shudders as she comes down and as he laves and sucks at her nether mouth. Her right hand splays flat on the desk, causing the minutes of creases to the parchment and smudges of the ink. Even if it takes another bloody night and day, he silently swears, he’ll have new copies made of every bit of business on this desk and not let a single item she’s touched leave his possession! Gods forbid some ambassador’s report or instructions ends up imbued with the faintest whiff of her essence and is left to molder unappreciated and dishonored in some musty chronicle or archive!

The thought fills him with a possessive, jealous rage and drives him to leave Emma boneless and beyond sated this night. He plunges two fingers in her hot, pulsating channel, twisting his wrist at the end of each thrust and curving the tips. His rough haste makes her moan and cry out just as when his cock will nudge her womb in ravishing, powerful strokes; and when he begins to nip and abrade her sensitive flesh with his teeth, she truly understands what it means to be hungered for, to be devoured by one’s lover. She moans his name, unsure herself if she intends by her pleas to be begging for release or begging for him to fill her. He worries her clit and the lips of her sex, dragging wordless cries from her sinfully lush mouth—each sound increasing the already rapid beat of his heart, the raging, needy pulse of his cock. The buttons on his trousers ping against the hard wood of the desk and roll silently to a stop somewhere on the carpet. He rises and takes his length in hand and strokes himself, marble hard and hot as molten steel, teasing her sodden and aching cunt.

Desperate for what he is denying them—delaying gratification only, yet to her aroused mind they may as well have been fasting for an eternity—Emma sits up, joins her hand to his wrapped around the burning, velvety shaft, and drags his mouth down to hers for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Her ankles lock around each other, heels digging into the unyielding skin and muscle of his ass and unsuccessfully urging him to close the distance between their bodies. Angered at his apparent refusal, she bites down hard on his lower lip before breaking the kiss altogether; he only has a moment to note that her eyes have never held such insatiable fire before. She slaps him across the face, twin stars of green fury staring accusingly at him. “I said, I want you to fuck me!”

Already hanging by a thread, his control snaps as he plunges deep into her core, fusing their hips together. The unleashed power of every thrust has her gasping or shrieking his name and forces her further across the desk. He drags her body back flush to his, crushing her hips to him in a bruising grip. He feels the bite of her nails scoring across his back and the sharp sting of teeth to the skin just above his heart. Each pin prick of pain seems to make their frenzy, their mad inferno of wanting blaze hotter and hotter. Reaching blindly, one of his hands finds the belt of Emma’s robe while the other pinions her wrists above her head. He takes a moment to unlock her legs from around his waist, then bodily flips her onto her stomach before plunging back into her drenched heat. Another moment and her arms and wrists are tied behind her back, one of his hands pressing roughly between her shoulder blades and the other uses the knots securing her in place as a handhold.

She holds her head up, arching her back slightly despite the hand pressing her firmly to the desk and creating a new angle that has him buried completely inside her at the end of each thrust. Somewhere in his mind, Killian knows that she’s all but biting on her tongue to hold back the screams of pleasure, her sounds coming no less frequently yet far more muffled than only moments ago. Each snap of his hips, the head of his cock presses against the end of her, the opening of her womb—he has never been as close to or as completely in harmony with another person, never so intimately met and entwined as in this violently erotic moment. Desperate—absolutely insane with desire and the need to fill her with his seed, he reaches around her hips for her clit and finds it crushed against the wooden edge of the desk, a surface now slick with her juices. Her walls have been clamping and milking his cock since he bound her hands, but he dedicatedly manipulates the tender, responsive pearl of flesh. Her body contorts and writhes against his hold, her chest lifting impossibly high despite his hand still firmly pressed against her spine. Her cannot see her face for the curtain of hair concealing her, but a quiet, high-pitched keening comes from the depth of her being and her pussy tightens like a vise around him. He comes, eyes completely blinded and ears filled with a pealing ringing to rival a thousand temple bells, entirely lost to the sensation of their physical, emotional, and spiritual connection.

Emma wakes first, body crushed and cradled by Killian’s larger frame. She sighs and waits for her lover to rejoin the world of the living, feeling sore and used and the most happily content she has ever experienced in her life.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I needed to clear up some assorted timeline issues (which was why it took me a little longer to get to working on this chapter). I worked out a calendar, which has been added to an A/N at the beginning of chapter one, and assigned a birthdate to each of the characters to be revealed when necessary. The dating system will follow the non-American standard—Day. Month. Year—with the years being numbered in the medieval style, using the king’s initials and the numerical year of his reign. So Liam’s birthday reads 27. Tertia (or 3).KWS17 (17th year of the reign of King William I of House Sonoian).  
> At the beginning of chapter one, which is set in Septimor (July), Sophia has just turned 4 years old. Emma remarks on her as appearing older, but it is more than possible for her to simply have tall genes. Also, she may sound older, but this has also been a conscious choice; her precocity and perceptiveness are modeled on the royal Tudor children—the Lady Mary Tudor, the Lady Elizabeth Tudor, Edward VI, and the Lady Jane Grey—who were all naturally highly intelligent in addition to being given a course of rigorous education as befitting future leaders of politics and court. In her statement to Emma in the previous chapter about making certain that Killian eats, it was meant to point out that Sophia has recognized her father in crisis mode before, even though he has never yet let these crises impinge on their family time. As with many intelligent children, she sees things even when the adults would keep something from her.   
> At the present moment in the story Killian is 33, Emma is 28, and Liam is 40. Milah has been dead for just over 3 years, her ship having gone down when Sophia was 9 months old. Although royal breastfeeding practices and the weaning of infants are variable over time and culture, it seemed logical and possible for Milah to have gone away only after having mostly or completely weaned a 9 month old. She and Killian had been married for nearly 4 years when she died and she was 35 at the time.

Thankfully for the portions of Emma’s body that begin to insist on their need to be freed, Killian wakes not long after her and pushes himself off the desk with impressive rapidity and agility. “Gods, Emma! I’m so sorry, darling!”

She wiggles her fingers impatiently, and with another mumbled curse he unpicks the knot on her impromptu bindings. “If you are apologizing for giving me precisely what I asked of you, then you are a fool! If you are apologizing for ravishing us both to a point beyond ecstasy, then I may just have to put an end to my tuition in these matters. For your health, naturally.”

The obvious sarcasm and tease in her voice compels him to grin like an idiot, cheekiness earns her a firm slap on her exposed arse, but the husky purr of satisfaction in her tone and in her words fills him to bursting with pride. His mind taunts him with an image of her by his side: dressed in silk, graceful neck draped with diamonds and pearls, and an expression on her face that positively screams of her utter happiness to be by his side and belong to him. In this vision, she is the envy of all ladies and his fortune in finding her is cursed by all men. He finishes untying her and pulls her immediately into his arms, his hands smoothing down to massage feeling and blood back into her abused extremities.

“I was apologizing for being so lost to the pleasure of being inside you that I gave no thought to any discomfort that might result from our vigorous occupation. Can you forgive me for being a mindless slave to my passion for you?” Her answering blush and smile warm him to his toes and go far in assuaging his guilt. One of these days, he’ll ask her why any praise causes her to stammer and flush—perhaps during the impending string of long, cold winter nights and when he has her once more bound and at his mercy, for in the heat of their abandoned embraces the truth flows more easily past her lips.

She clasps his hands and laces their fingers together, glancing at them distractedly before lifting her eyes to his. “I cannot fathom just why you chose me, but when you speak of me like this and say such wonderful things, how can I possibly fail to forgive you? But if you would truly be absolved of any guilt, please let me keep my promise to Sophia about taking care of you—you need to eat something before you perish from hunger. Don’t think I didn’t hear the rumbling of your stomach just now!”

He eagerly submits to her fussing, unable to halt his mind from searching his memories for the last time anyone else ever showed the same level of concern and care for his well-being; when he realizes that he cannot recall such an event beyond his recollections of his mother’s care during his childhood, a part of his heart breaks for all that might have been and another piece re-knits around the territory that he begins to think of and know as belonging solely to Emma. Far from being displeased or shocked by this self-revelation, Killian discovers that the thought of being under her power, of being at the mercy of another person makes him feel strong rather than vulnerable, complete rather than exposed and wanting.

Together, they enthusiastically devour the finger foods on the tray, occasionally pausing to playfully nibble and suck on proffered stretches of skin. Despite having worked in near perfect communication and harmony for the past several hours, they yet find much to discuss regarding the plans for more letters to be written and posted on the morrow and regarding changes to Sophia’s lessons that will result from the shift in the seasons. When Emma moves to gather up their dishes and remove the tray to the kitchens, Killian grasps her wrist in one hand and takes her chin in the other to lift her gaze toward his. “For once, my dear, I think you can be selfish and let someone else clean up the little bit of mess you made. I have noticed that you find little to no pleasure in having another do work which you are fully capable of performing, and it is an admirable trait. But the tray will keep, Emma, until tomorrow. I sincerely doubt that what remains will be enough to attract any mice or flies in the intervening hours. Your sleep, however, cannot wait. Let me walk you to your rooms.”

She frowns at him, only surprised for a moment that he has noted her discomfort with being served and having her needs or wants instantly attended to by others; but then Killian appears to possess the remarkable ability to discover anything and everything about her with a single glance. With a resigned sigh, she accepts the gentle support of his arm around her waist as he escorts her toward the family wing.

 Perhaps it is the possible reprieve from her anxiety regarding the King’s visit or perhaps it is the looming certainty of disaster and suffering on a massive scale, but Emma finds herself feeling remarkably at peace and unusually introspective this evening. Just as on the day she saved Sophia she could have never envisioned herself as any man’s doxy, so now she does not know what she would do without her lover and her student. If fate had never brought her to Killian’s attention, then she would have been powerless to do anything about her father’s records; even if she had been granted an audience with the regional governor, an old journal would not necessarily have constituted enough proof to move him to act. Untold numbers of her countrymen would not have been forewarned and might have starved or perished by disease or exposure, perhaps even herself. If he hadn’t asked her to become a part of his household and teach his daughter, her days would still be spent in endless, mind-numbing toil; if he hadn’t sought for a place in her bed, her nights would be achingly lonely. Empty. Her life without the two of them was empty, barren, and bleak.

The gray vista conjured by this word, of the blank stretches of a vast, flat desert sends a piercing dart of pain through her chest and causes an uncontrollable shivering through her entire being. She feels undeniably cold and forlorn, filled once more with an agonized grief the likes of which she has not felt in several years—not since Snow died, abandoning her and sentencing her to a life apart. Unconscious to the tenor of her thoughts, Killian moves his arm from around her waist and chafes his hand up and down from her shoulder to her elbow to restore the warmth he supposes she lost during their amorous encounter. His action, his automatic response to a presumed need reverses her thoughts away from her lost and wasted years. Here, with Killian and Sophia, she is needed and wanted; her life has a bright meaning and purpose that it never had before, because she had never allowed herself to care for another. She had barricaded her cottage and her heart, leaving them to slowly diminish and decay underneath a coat of whitewash; saving Sophia, then coming to know her and adore her, coming to know and admire Killian to…

“Your door, dearest.” His words halt the flow of her thoughts, but do not alter their pathway. She slips a hand to his face, gently tracing the darkened hollows beneath his eyes with her fingertips. He takes a deep breath and leans into the warm comfort of her skin against his. He can see the thoughts practically flying through her mind as their gaze remains locked, unblinking. Normally, he can read precisely what she’s thinking in her eyes and in her face, yet her expression remains impenetrably fixed. So, he waits for her, patiently accepting her caresses and tenderly imparting his own to her waist and sides.

“Will you—You told me once that my room was my sanctuary, where I could be undisturbed and utterly private. Would you stay with me, until I fall asleep? I have a feeling that being private here with you would not be disturbing in the least.” With a blush that quickly hides behind the curtain of her hair, Emma opens her door and grasps his hand to bring him inside. The fire burns cheery and bright, lending a soft red-orange glow by which they navigate toward the bed. She slips her robe from her shoulders with practiced ease and climbs swiftly beneath the covers, turning back the side she clearly intends for him.

If the shock of her request had begun to dissipate, her eagerness for him to be in her bed further astounds him. For a moment imposed over this vision of Emma is an image from his memory. Milah, seated in a much grander bed, back ramrod straight against the mound of pillows; her nightgown of the finest linens, satins, and lace cut long to cover her ankles and secured with a thicket of ribbons up to her chin; bed linens tucked tightly on his side yet pulled loose on hers; luxuriant hair pulled tightly into a coiled braid as elaborate as any coiffure for a ball; bright candlelight illuminating the room, but darkness reigning behind the drawn bed-curtains.

He shakes his head to clear the sharp, unforgiving memory and meets Emma’s gaze. Her eyes glitter softly, invitingly in the flickering firelight. Her blonde tresses flow around her bare shoulders. Her bed contains all that is warm, earthly, sensual, and appealing—a haven and bower in which to rest and rejuvenate from the cares of the day. Suddenly bold and curious as to her reaction, Killian decides to strip completely; yes, she has seen him naked many times before, but she has never expressly sought his attentions and enticed him so thoroughly as she has today. His cravat had been discarded hours ago, so she is denied a much slower, more torturous tease, but she avidly admires and applauds the slipping of every button from its moorings. Her breathing accelerates when waistcoat and shirt are simultaneously shrugged from his shoulders, skimming past miles of warm, glowing flesh. Her reaction delights him far more than he could articulate; and yet a part of him becomes guilt-ridden for yet comparing her to his wife and finding Milah lacking in anyway.

Though she cannot divine his thoughts and yet remains ignorant of many of the details of his marriage, Emma knows that these moments are now a test for her in some way. She knows that there remain portions of him which she has not yet touched, where she may never be allowed to enter let alone change. But for all the silences and secrets still between them, she knows with certainty now that she loves him; the ache at the thought of never having known him, the grief and terror that arose at the possibility of losing her place in his life, in Sophia’s life informed her precisely how she feels, more than words could accurately define. No matter how fleeting their liaison may become in the grander scheme of both their lives, she plans to devote every moment to loving him as best as she possibly can. And right now, the best that she can do is make him welcome in her bed, in her room; his presence not an invasion of her privacy, but an enrichment.

Finally, blessedly bare to her eyes, Killian slips beneath the sheets. He lies on his side, facing and mirroring her posture with head perched on his hand. With a smile and a chaste kiss to his lips, Emma slides closer. His movements are awkward at first, but they end up with arms wrapped around the other and Emma’s head resting against his chest, ear filled with the contented sound of his heartbeat.


	13. Chapter 13

Emma smiles to herself when Killian’s breathing quickly evens out in the deep, measured respirations of sleep, knowing that whatever may yet remain unsaid between them she understands her lover well enough to know that he would have slept little or not at all without her. Neither of them may be accustomed to sharing a bed with another person, but pointless worry and the cares of the kingdom would have had him pacing back and forth in front of the fire in his lonely room; her request that he keep her company provided him with the excuse his mind needed to recline and relax, allowing nature to work its subtle magic.

* * *

 

Killian stalks the length and breadth of the chapel like a man beset by jinn and demons rather than angels, fists clenched in impotent rage and crushing agony. His father’s voice echoes against the cold stones—vaulted ceiling, incense-begrimed walls, and apathetic tombs filled with bones and charnel seem the perfect audience and setting for the gray, lifeless sentiments thrown in his face. _Duty. Honor. Pride. Kingdom. Family. Ancient obligation. Blood and birth_.

The long-forgotten cadence of his mother’s voice joins in with a hard, unyielding tone the likes of which he cannot recall having heard before. Her disembodied echo takes on a shrill and accusatory quality as if shocked and outraged by his action, his inaction, or indeed his very thoughts. _Shame. Embarrassment. Fool. Disgrace. Disappointment._

A chorus of courtiers, the voices of enemies and friends both past and present join in the disdaining mockery; his plight clearly held up as an object of vicious scorn and malicious entertainment as the pounding, relentless reverberations force him to his knees, hands clutching his head from the pain resonating through his skull in pitiless waves. He recoils when he realizes that he kneels not on cold stone but in a puddle of hot blood and scrambles to his feet again. But he slips, and the pool grows swift and deep, rising to drench his flailing legs and sluice down his arms from his elbows as he attempts yet again to rise.

“ _YOU DID THIS TO ME!_ ” He startles at the pure venom and rage in the voice of elemental thunder that overwhelms all the others, lancing fresh arrows of torment across his mind. In place of the altar is now a marble coffin—one he knows for a certainty is empty of a corpse—the source of the boiling scarlet flood; the blood gushing from the sepulchre rushes ever higher, pulling against his body like the outgoing tides and knocking him off his balance yet again. He forces his limbs to obey him, swimming now and close to drowning in a roiling, churning sea of blood as red lightning cracks a black and pitiless sky. Fleetingly, he sees the broken outline of a wrecked and battered ship on the horizon. As if the sight saps all his strength and spirit, he gives in to the inevitable and ceases to fight the hot waves and lets them crash over him.

Yet rather than blissful, drifting oblivion every nerve blossoms with pain as his body slams against unyielding, wet sand. He rolls to his side, coughing and spluttering and spitting up the blood that filled his lungs, mouth, and nostrils; his skin burns, scored and lacerated by the jagged-edge bits of bone, glass, and rock which form the beach. When he finally manages to wipe away some of the gore from his eyes he spies another wave-tossed body lying crooked and wrong on the crimson sands—legs, arms, and neck all bent at impossible angles. Moreover, the body is pristine, skin white as porcelain and hair glittering golden amid the angry flashes of light. He cannot move his battered and sluggish frame fast enough, crawling awkwardly through the shifting shards in his haste to confirm what his mind would deny for eternity if denial could make it truth.

He mournfully gathers the cold, broken corpse into his arms before truly looking at the face and finds yet more horror to shock and shatter his mind when he does—the bright gold curls only cover half of the head, while chestnut locks drape about the other half. Like a jester’s mask, the marble hard face is divided perfectly down the center—one half Milah’s with her blue eye and one half Emma’s and her green. The mismatched orbs glitter like unclouded glass, yet remain fixed and dead.

_You destroy everything you touch._

* * *

 

Killian wakes to several surprises, namely that he does not find himself alone and soaked in sweat from his horrific nightmare. He trembles and shudders uncontrollably, the frigid, biting air of his dreamscape having somehow seeped into the very marrow of his bones. His normal reaction—to bolt upright into immediate wakefulness and action—is halted by the unexpected weight of Emma’s sleeping form pinning half of him to the bed. Having been just ripped from a convincing vision of pressing her cold, lifeless form to his chest, he cannot instantly credit the feel of her very warm and very alive body twined around him. Slowly and oh so gently, he brushes his hand along her skin from its resting place around her waist and up the curving slope of her side and breast; every inch burns hot to his touch, feverish against his icy palm and fingertips. The flutter of the pulse at her neck reassures him, releasing the tight constriction of the breath in his lungs; a calming whiff of lavender is stirred by the same puff of air into her hair, which he touches reverently. His fingers detect the barest hint of warmth in the strand he toys with, heated by her living flesh and the radiated heat of sleep. He’s awake and she is both real and blessedly alive!

His arms instinctively clasp her even tighter, even closer to him so that every corner of his being unequivocally receives the message that it was all a dream—he has not yet lost her. He places a kiss to the top of her head, once more breathing in her natural scent and the lavender oil she favors for her hair. Neither contented nor truly comforted with this, he tenderly tips her head back from its resting place against his chest and places another kiss to her forehead. Never before has he taken the time or possessed the driving compulsion to truly worship every inch of her, but in the emotional pendulum’s swing from abject misery to blinding unworthiness to supplicant gratitude he finds the fierce will and visceral need to accomplish such a liturgy of devotion.

The line between Emma’s sleeping and waking blurs for both of them, for she had been in the midst of her own, less traumatic dreaming when Killian’s lavish kisses and murmurs of profound thanksgiving and adoration pressed themselves upon her unconscious awareness. In shifting both of them to accomplish his reverent veneration, her arms had resisted being compelled to relinquish their hold upon him and instinctively pursued the movements of his body in order to keep him within their compass. Her breathing deepens sharply and then comes in faster and faster pants the more fervent and ardent his caresses and kisses become.

His divine service, his order of adulation of her form is exquisitely thorough. He knows for certain that she no longer sleeps when a soft nip to her collarbone yields a whimper, but he continues without direct speech and moves a hand to begin his devotions to her breasts. When he finally sucks a berry-sweet nipple into his mouth, she writhes and arches beneath him, offering herself up and submitting her being in a timeless, wordless gesture. He obliges by unerringly burying two fingers into her tight, ready cunt and earns his name on a breathless gasp. He quickly adds a third and ruthlessly stimulates the pearl of her sex, feeling her quim grasp almost painfully around his questing hand. He suckles hard and bites down on her breast, a moan of triumph breaking through his silence when the walls of her sex wildly clench and quiver.

Her hands which had been clinging desperately to his shoulder now thread themselves through his hair and pull. Her voiceless request for his mouth is answered by a penetrating, ruthless kiss; even bound to his bed and receiving the solid spanks of his hand on her flesh, even knelt before him and receiving his cock in her mouth, even as last night bent at his pleasure and being fucked senseless she has never felt more under his control, under his thrall than with this kiss. She feels branded and owned, but not as if she were a mere possession to be coveted and displayed; she feels cherish, protected. She feels like she belongs.

She tugs at his hair as the kiss goes on and on, delirious with her need to share her revelation with him. Yet he refuses to relinquish his command of any part of her body; his lips and teeth and tongue do not plunder, but yet they sound and fathom every bit of her mouth; his fingers continue their decadent assault on her welcoming and still pulsating pussy, somehow rousing her higher and higher with yet another orgasm swiftly rising from her depths. The hairs on his chest both abrade and soothe the hypersensitive skin of her breasts when she manages to writhe just high enough to brush against him. His skin is hot and slick where it comes in contact with hers, both too much and not enough as her body shatters once again under his maestro’s hands.

He finally releases her mouth to trail back down her breasts, but they are a mere stopping point in his journey and have already been visited at length. His lips stroke her mound, whisper soft as if murmuring nonsense into her skin. She finally opens her eyes to find his hot gaze locked on her face, shards of blue fire and black ice piercing in their intensity and focus. Her ears appear worthless and she reads his words from his lips and the desperation in his features: _tell me you want me, tell me you want this_.

“Always. I always want you, Killian.” He devours her, and for a time no more words pass her lips save for his name. He licks his fingers clean before plunging them back in and entreating her quim to provide more satisfaction, to release more of the silky-sweet evidence of her arousal. He runs his tongue along every wall, meticulously mapping and surveying every millimetre for the slide and friction and touches that please her most, mercilessly pursuing every glorious shudder that racks her body. He sucks at the lips of her sex, nudging her bud constantly with his nose or brushing against it. He bites and nibbles at the soft flesh of her inner thighs and presses chaste kisses to her hipbones. He glories in her scent, musky yet clean, wishing that he could wallow in it, bathe himself in her essence so that he would never have to be without it. The ache to bury his cock into her gripping, enticing sheath burns along his spine, but he’s greedy for more, in a desperate frenzy to make her come and wring every last drop of passion from her ever-giving body.

He works her through a third and well on the way to a fourth orgasm when her frantic cries and forceful wrenching of his ear reach through his fanatic focus. “Sweet Danu, have mercy! Mercy, Killian! Mercy! I can’t—not without you! I need—need you in--inside—inside me, Killian! Now, lover!”

He lunges gracelessly, covering her completely and crushing her into the mattress before lining up his cock and entering her with all the finesse of a green lad. All it takes is the gentle rippling of her cunt around him and he spills himself, shaft and head pulsating in thick, hot streams. Emma clenches her legs around him, rapidly flipping their positions without disturbing the still-hard length inside her and begins to ride him with their sweat-slicked chests and bellies sliding against each other. She presses her body harder against his, lacing their fingers together and pinning his hands to the bed. She keeps her rhythm slow and constant while she waits patiently, watching his emotions flash across his face with the tightening of his jaw or a ripple of the set of his mouth as his eyes are resolutely shuttered and lidded against her gaze.

She lifts herself slowly while clenching the walls of her pussy around him, the thick drag of retreat leaving her feeling momentarily bereft and abandoned, and then releases and sheaths him once more, so that she is filled and completed in the best possible way. Her movements pull a whimper from her prince, who finally opens his eyes. Agony! Utter misery and desolation the likes of which she knows on a fundamental level, yet the cause in him she does not yet understand. She halts and rises back up above him, which causes another glimmer of torture, another terrified glance. He sits up and gathers her in his arms, burying his head in the valley between her breasts as he mumbles over and over again. His words are quiet, spoken in the pitiable voice of a lost and lonely child. “Please don’t leave me.”

She wraps herself around him as tightly as she can, hands moving in soothing circles over his back and in his hair. Their bodies remain locked together as they rock back and forth—lost to the moment not in desire or in pleasure, but in intimacy and communion. His trembling eases slightly and his body, if not yet his mind, recalls itself to its present agreeable situation and his hips rock upward. Her overly-stimulated sex contracts violently in protest, the body reacting in ways that it hadn’t while the mind had been lost in the firestorm of their passion. Killian groans, both pained and exhilarated, while she continues to soothe and comfort. By gradual inches and growing mutual sympathy, their motions recapture the bliss of being joined. Emma says nothing, makes no promises with words to never leave him; but her eyes brim with all the emotions she feels for him, and her body loudly proclaims her silent covenant known in ways that defy the limits of language. She doesn’t know what sparked his terror, does not know the grief and the recriminations and the errors that yet eat away at his soul; but the spectres of the past do not frighten her and cannot eject her from her place at his side. Not without a fight.

With a gentle, compassionate hand, Emma wipes the tears from his eyes and his skin. She places tender kisses across his forehead, delicate caresses of her lips over his eyelids, his nose, the sharp cheekbones, the stubborn jaw and chin. She retraces the same journey that he had begun on her body, just as earnest as he in her devotion, but with a soft, soothing, humble touch; her worship as fond and as affectionate, resulting in a soul-cleansing release for them both that leaves them shattered and remade in a new image, sated and refreshed and reborn as the tides of sleep drag them inexorably under, each entirely entwined and enmeshed around and within the other.

* * *

 

Emma wakes with the sunrise, Killian’s head pillowed on her breasts and arms clinging tightly around her belly. His slumbering, sated body resists letting her go, but she squirms and twists about and finally manages to free herself. He goes on sleeping and she doesn’t move to stir him—the exertions and cares of the night and of the day before have entirely drained him mind and body; between the two of them, she and Mr. Fairfax know enough to begin their day’s work without him. She pens a brief note and places it under his hand before brushing a kiss to the top of his head. His mouth curves into a brief, contented smile for a moment and she can’t help thinking that he looks more handsome when he’s relaxed and ruffled from sleep. Quietly she finishes dressing, leaves the room, and locks the door behind her.

_I haven’t left you, and Danu being kind, I never will. Rest, beloved. I’ll be in the library when you wake._

_E._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Religion doesn't play a major part in this story, but I borrowed the name of the goddess Danu from Celtic mythology.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first impulse is to apologize for making you all wait this long for an update; I know that many of you love these characters and are enjoying the story that I have set them in. It truly warms my heart and encourages me that you have come to care about my words so much. However, I will not apologize for circumstances beyond my control, nor do I ask for anyone’s pity. I have a recurring illness that has required two common, yet still invasive surgeries within the last three years and often need to take pain medication that interferes greatly with my energy levels and any concerted efforts at creativity. I have been working on this chapter for a month now and finally feel it is ready. I can make no guarantees about when the next chapter will be ready, but I thankfully am feeling consistently well enough to be working; if the lack of certain updates turns you off from the story, I am sorry, but I do understand. Thank you.

Upon later reflection, the next few weeks pass in a furious blur of activity with the only happening of genuine importance to Emma being the calm, well-rested smile on Killian's face when he finally comes downstairs to join her and Fairfax in the library the morning after spending the night in her bed. In truth, her hours and days were almost impossibly filled to the brim, and yet she managed to juggle the tasks of governess and concerned landowner seemingly without effort. After completing her temporary duties as scribe, she decamped to her farm the next day with Sophia and Francine in tow. Given that the princess’ own wealth and station depended on the land and the people who worked it, Killian had agreed that firsthand knowledge of the often back-breaking labor involved in managing and husbanding the fields could only enrich his daughter’s education.

Given Emma’s intimate knowledge of her own lands, providing Sophia with pure information as well as its practical application proves quite easy and a source of pride—both in her own abilities as a manager and in her pupil’s advancement since beginning her education. Quite naturally speaking to her matchmaking sensibilities, Francine had presumed that the choice to begin lessons in husbanding the land with Emma’s acreage stemmed (no doubt) from a more romantic than practical sentiment, and so had taken the time to provide for a cozy picnic for four; her assumption likewise did  _not_  take into account the seriousness with which Graham views his new duties—to Emma as his direct employer and to the trust she extends him in placing her wealth and livelihood in his hands—and his new position  _vis a vis_  said employer and his former station in life. Having maintained a kindly, yet clinical correspondence with her regarding the care and conservation of her fields and hearth the past month, Graham had become fully cognizant as to the disparity between them. For all her seeming humility of class and birth, he had sensed as if by instinct how far above him Emma is in wisdom, understanding, poise, and position; indeed, in his role as footman he had been made privy to many of the secrets of a noble household on occasions where aristocratic visitors had been in residence and, from comparison of the two, had realized that the superior graces and manner of his employer far outshone all others. To his mind, Emma is quite simply the finest lady he has ever or will ever have the chance to meet, and any of the more tender feelings he may have once cherished for her have become subsumed in his absolute respect for and admiration of her.

As she had only her own labor to rely upon during this year’s sowing season, the current active fields of her farm comprise a very little percentage of her possible yield and the harvest of her produce lasts but the single day. However, the number of farms, mills, fisheries, and assorted artisans who owe their livelihood to the royal lands of Thistledown Hall are sufficiently numerous as to provide Emma with plenty more educational opportunities for her charge. The next day dawns and finds the trio once more advancing beyond the immediate environs of the manor and onto the nearest locality of the increasingly frantic crop harvest, that of the apple orchard.

Much to Francine’s dismay, they are all three given appropriately sized canvas sacks by the farm manager in which to collect as much of the occasionally fragile fruit as possible; however, she resolutely holds her head high, listening carefully to Master Waters’ instructions on the best way to pick an apple and the right sizes and colors to look for. He stoically marches through the ranks of his assistants, barking the odd order while briskly filling his own sack to capacity and making the odd addendum to Emma’s educational lectures for Sophia. The apple harvest itself has already been in full swing since Septimor, many of the earliest blossoms having fully ripened and some of the varietals usually presenting a completed crop by the middle of Octavus.

Master Waters quickly points to the finished trees, outlining the workers who have just begun the wintering processes. “Now normally, ladies, we’d not be worryin’ about such thins jus’ yit, but with the arrival of winter comin’ unexpected early, we’ve orders from his Highness to begin now. Since we can’t wait for the leaves to fall, we’ve lads an’ lasses strippin’ them from the branches an’ pilin’ ‘em up as high as they can round the base o’ the trees. Then, we’ll work on prunin’ back the branches an’ layin’ those on top o’ the leaves. Last, we’ll send round to the dairymen for some fine loads o’ manure to spread above that, what t’wil keep the bits below from dryin’ out an’ flyin’ away. Then, the snow will land atop that, lockin’ it all in to decay an’ work itself into the soil; so, come springtime, we’ll have good, healthy earth feedin’ the trees.

“And you see these ‘uns here be lookin’ a mite thin on fruit? Well that’s because some on ‘em were all ripe to be picked, but others weren’t ready jus’ yit. We can mebbe give ‘em another week or twa, an’ then go for another pickin’. Arter that, we’ll have to chop ‘em up an’ mix ‘em in wi’ the leaves and the branches to go below the manure and feed next year’s crop.”

On and on, sharing his knowledge and love of his favored crop with the ladies of the manor fills Waters with a great deal of pride, especially in having secured the honor of being the first of the land managers to host them. He is even granted the opportunity of introducing his honored guests to his esteemed colleague the beekeeper, whose own crop and charges are discussed as well in their relation to the success of the current harvest and to farming in general. Emma, not yet having had the chance to make his acquaintance, informs Master Nolan of her interest in herbs and natural remedies; honey and beeswax being quite common ingredients in many potions, decoction, and salves as well as being vital necessities for candle-making, she immediately strikes up an informed conversation with him that ultimately garners a promise to keep her well supplied with the fruits of his labors.

When the lunch bell chimes, Francine and Emma take turns carrying Sophia toward their wagon where another simple picnic lunch awaits. Despite the differences in their ages and positions, Emma has developed a fondness for the older woman—one that stems from her overall good nature and kindliness, but also from her obvious devotion to Killian and Sophia; that she doesn’t behave as if she or Emma are in any way superior to the men and women working the apple orchard helps, and that she doesn’t see it as part of her duty to instill a sense of haughty condescension in their young charge. The prince has been lucky indeed, or at the very least highly rigorous and selective, in the servants who surround his daughter. While the princess never meets with abject bending to her royal temper, neither does she meet with the rigid, confining strictures of a narrowly defined and regimented life. Sophia is that rare child of the nobility, inculcated with an awareness of her position whilst still allowed to actually experience a childhood, neither overly proud and willful nor flighty and ornamental.

After their meal ends, they make a point of thanking Masters Waters and Nolan for all of their aid and information before pressing on to the next order of the day—the apple mill. While the lands attached to Thistledown Hall are blessed with a rich variety of soils and natural resources, much of their economic prosperity derives from its export of wines, liqueurs, and other fermented beverages. Their ciders and brandies in particular have provided the area with an impeccable, deserved reputation both within the kingdom and beyond. For Sophia, naturally, the pleasure of the mill can be found in the loud crank of the grinder as its teeth shred whole apples to bits in seconds, in the gush of the juice through the slats of the barrel as the press is screwed down tight, and in the sweet, pulpy treat that results from her ‘help’ in the arduous labor.

Much of the rest of the operations no doubt passes beyond her immediate caring or comprehension: filtration, boiling, cooling, fermentation… All terms that matter little in the face of fresh-pressed cider and applesauce. However, Emma does her level best to keep Sophia engaged and interested in the processes involved here on her lands, as well as the effects of their production on the wider world. Her eyes go impossibly wide at the thought that what she sees in this moment will quite possibly travel farther than she can imagine, which is limited to the still prohibitively long distance to the capital city and her uncle’s court. The thought leads to a rather endearing request that ‘her’ barrel of cider be sent directly to the King’s cellars as a gift; the foreman is politely asked to mark and keep the keg aside until Killian is consulted, but Emma has little doubt that it will be sent by special courier as soon as he can arrange it.

While the other crops have yet to be harvested or have yet to be brought to mill, Master Scott explains the processes for extracting and preparing the juice of the grape, the peach, and all the other fruits that make their way through his presses and into cellars on Thistledown lands and across the continent. Having discretely consulted with Mrs. Potts and Chef, Emma ensures that Master Scott gives Sophia several “presents” of bottled juices and kegs of wine to distribute to her subjects up at the hall in order to guarantee that their supper tonight is a rousing success. Thankfully for the exhausted women, their charge manages a short but much needed nap on the ride between the mill compound and the manor, allowing them a brief respite before getting her washed and changed for the supper meal.

* * *

 

The conversation around the dinner table that evening flows as it always does with a child in the house, revolving entirely upon the most exciting moments of the day recalled with grand exclamations, sweeping gestures, and far more drama than the mundane events truly entailed; Sophia’s raptures over the delights of apple picking and cider pressing clearly overshadow the enthusiasm over yesterday’s adventures at Emma’s farm, providing Killian with plenty of amusement and the rare opportunity to innocently and openly tease her. The meal progresses as most before it with the occasional comfortable silence as the diners enjoy the excellent food, and yet a single change in routine heightens Emma’s normal impatience for the formalities to end.

As prearranged between them, Killian had devised a simple, inconspicuous signal to inform her that he would appreciate her company for the evening—rather than accept another glass of wine as part of the void between the final entrée and dessert, he would request a cup of coffee with the sweets course. Should Emma be of a mind and mood to join him, she would ask for the same; however, should she not feel inclined for their more adventuresome activities, she would accept the glass of wine. On the few occasions when she had declined the coffee, they had still spent at least some of the evening together in discussions regarding Sophia’s education, pleasant conversation, or the odd game of cards or chess as they both sincerely enjoy each other’s company regardless of the relative innocence of the night’s chosen activity.

In all this time of getting to know about one another, Emma had discovered that he possessed a decided sweet tooth and was never one to pass on one of Chef’s latest confections. However, not only does Killian ask for a cup of coffee, he makes a point of informing the footman not to bring in a serving of the dessert course for him; while Francine and the other upper servants at the table share a look of surprise and concern, none of them dares to question their master’s possible motives for this unorthodox action. Sophia on the other hand lacks their tact and discretion. “Are you sick, Papa?”

“Only you, my dear, would think me ill for turning down dessert! I am quite alright, darling. I just find that sometimes waiting or denying myself something I enjoy makes it taste all the better later. For example, you like your pot of chocolate, yes? Well, if you had it every day at every meal, don’t you think you’d not enjoy it as much? Or Chef’s honey cakes? They taste so much better because they are special treats and take a lot of effort to make. Don’t you agree, Miss Shepherd?” His eyes sparkle with mischief and something more, something dark and deep and bittersweet.

“I suppose your father is right, Sophia; although, not having had honey cakes before, I will have to trust his judgment. I do know that while I like honey, I must always remember that it takes the bees a lot of effort to make it for us; and that too much of it can make little tummies upset.”

“And we know how much you dislike an upset tummy, don’t we Sophia?” The footmen bring in the dessert course as normal and Killian slowly savors his hot drink politely while the others eat the latest confection, all the time keeping his gaze hooded and discretely directed away from Emma. His evasiveness worries her slightly as she’s never known him to make such an obvious point of keeping something a secret from her. However, she has genuinely become fond of the bitter beverage as a palate cleanser of sorts, Chef occasionally managing in his enthusiasm to over-indulge his patron’s preference for sweets; and so she asks for coffee as well almost out of habit, covertly noticing an amused and approving grin on her lover’s face and wondering what enticing thoughts might lurk behind his cool, detached facade.

When they all rise after the last of the plates have been cleared, Francine motions for Sophia to proceed in front of her as they all begin to leave the room. Killian walks swiftly around the table, seeming to inadvertently be brought up short by Emma standing in his way. As if to steady them both, he catches her shoulders and discretely whispers to her before pushing back to the proper distance. To everyone else, it looks like an apology and the blushing of her cheeks is easily explained away by embarrassment over the momentary awkwardness of the social gaffe. “Francine, Miss Shepherd, I do believe that I will invoke a father’s prerogative and put my daughter to bed myself this evening. While your excursion was no doubt delightful today, I did miss my favorite daily distraction. Fairfax was so surprised to get an uninterrupted day’s work from me that I dare say he needs an early night himself to recover from the shock! Take the evening for yourselves, ladies. Shall we, my dear?”

With a gallant bow, Killian takes his daughter’s hand in his and presses a kiss to her knuckles. Her amused giggle becomes a peal of laughter when he gathers her up forcibly in his arms and strides in the direction of the family wing. Emma and the other upper servants watch them with fond eyes, their animated chatter and a bit of bright joy slowly fading with them into the distance. But a warm glow remains in her heart, knowing that she will not be resigned to loneliness and a cold bed this evening. _Take the next two hours for yourself, but then hurry to me._

* * *

 

“… And then _he_ said that it was _true_! That we send _barrels_ and **_barrels_** of cider to the capital all the time! And then _I_ asked if we could send the barrel that I ground and pressed directly to Uncle Liam. But Miss _Emma_ said that we would need to ask you first; and then _I_ said, but I _am_ the princess, so shouldn’t he have to obey me on principle? But then _she_ said that you were _my_ father, and that princess or no, I still needed to ask your permission.”

Despite the short lapse of time since she has become a part of their lives, Killian has grown inordinately fond of hearing Sophia’s narration of what Emma said and did throughout the day. Their family time used to be dominated by stories and make believe; now it is consumed with everything his daughter learns from her governess, and watching her joy in the discovery of life and the world around her makes him yearn for that simplistic wonder, for the sheer adventurous spirit that comes from one’s first, sweet taste of knowledge. It makes him long to whisk them both away to the glittering cities, to the vast forests, to the raging oceans, to the glowering mountains, and to the wide plains of the world just so he can experience them all for the first time again through eyes not jaded and embittered by harsh familiarity, with a heart unburdened.

“Papa, are you _certain_ your tummy doesn’t hurt?” He smiles down at her, silently cursing himself for the least amount of inattention on his part toward her.

“I just have a lot on my mind, darling, and some very important things to talk about. Remember how I told you that sometimes we need to keep a secret? That there are things I will tell you that only you and I and Uncle Liam may know?”

“Because we’re royals, right Papa!”

“Yes, dear heart. Because these secrets are very important to the kingdom, so you musn’t mention them to anyone else. Not even to Francine or to Miss Emma. Now, I need to tell you something that you may not want to hear. Uncle Liam is the King, but you remember that he also has a council that advises him, yes?” He kisses the top of her head as she earnestly nods it, eyes wide as if memorizing the very shape of his words, as if sensing their importance to her.

“Uncle Liam doesn’t have a son or daughter to follow him, like I have you, so the council has asked him to officially name me as his successor. Which means that if something bad should happen to your uncle, then I would become king.”

“Is this because he’s very sick, Papa?”

“Yes, darling, but remember that that is another secret which we have to keep. Now, hopefully his doctors can keep him with us for some time longer, but there are no guarantees in this life, Sophia.”

“Like when Mama had to go away. She loved us both, but the gods needed her more.” He smiles, but internally chokes on the necessary lies he’s told over the years in regards to Milah’s death. Killian stopped believing in the gods long ago, but such blasphemies are not for innocent ears.

“Exactly. And since Uncle Liam is so sick, it means that he cannot marry and have a son or daughter of his own. Unfortunately, because that makes me your uncle’s heir, the council can on occasion tell even me what to do. Because remember that I have to think of the good of the whole kingdom.”

“They want you to get married and have more babies, don’t they?” Aside from the shock of her anticipating his announcement, the downcast tone of her voice jolts through his chest like a thunder clap.

“Yes, darling. But where did you hear that, and why does that make you so sad? Wouldn’t you like to have a step-mother to love you and perhaps a baby sister or brother to help look after?”

“Francine. She’s said it before, to Chef and Mrs. Potts; and please don’t get mad at her, Papa, because she says that a wife and some more babies would make you happy again! And I want you to be happy too, Papa, even if it means replacing me with other babies. But she also said that the kingdom needs a little prince, and when I asked her what was wrong with a princess, she said that the ‘stocrisy wouldn’t stand for a girl on the throne.” Even if he hadn’t the comparison of overhearing the nanny’s interfering remarks about Emma and Graham, he swears that he couldn’t possibly have ever wanted to physically harm an old woman more than he does now. That she could be so willfully ignorant or so callous as to make a statement like that and not explain it to a young child! He reaches to gather his daughter in his arms, grateful for this nearly missed chance to set the record straight.

“Oh, Sophia! The sad truth of this world is that for most men, the men who are in power in this kingdom, she speaks common wisdom. I don’t believe this and neither does your Uncle Liam, but many people **do** believe and accept as fact the idea that boys are better than girls, specifically that boys can rule a kingdom better than girls. You, my darling Sophia, are more than a match for any other child I have seen, boy or girl, and I have no doubt that you will make a fine Queen some day. But proving that will take time and patience and courage on all our parts.

“Now, as I said, your uncle doesn’t have any children and you are my only child. Until you are all grown up and can have children of your own, this means that there will be no one else to follow you should the worst happen to us all. So, when the snow thaws and your uncle comes to visit, several ladies will be coming with him; ladies who the council hopes will—one of them—suit enough to become my wife and your step-mother.”

He laughs at the wrinkles that form on her nose and forehead at the thought of someone coming in to interrupt their routine, fleetingly remembering that there was no such distaste or dissatisfaction expressed when Emma had joined their household. “If all goes well, then we will be married and make several brothers and sisters for you in the coming years. But I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will always love you. No wife or little brother or little sister could ever take your place in my heart and, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t remarry at all; it would be just you and me forever.”

“And Miss Emma.”

“What? A mutiny in my own house?!”

“Just you and me and Miss _Emma_ forever, Papa. She’s ever so smart, and I _do_ need someone to teach me how to be a lady. Do you know that she can play the hammer-chord, but that she didn’t even know that she could? When we were arranging our gardens in the greenhouse the other day, she asked for some colored rock to make a pretty border like in her mother’s garden on her farm. And she made the prettiest pattern with them and danced her fingers in the air and started to hum one of the tunes Maestro was teaching me on the hammer-chord the other day, which is when _I_ said that I didn’t _know_ she could play the hammer-chord. And then _she_ said that she had never heard of a hammer-chord and asked me what it was and _I_ showed her to the music room. And it took her a moment because she wasn’t used to holding the hammers, but then she started playing music just like Maestro!”

Killian listens in bemused silence, wondering at his own ability to be so constantly surprised by the enigma that is Emma Shepherd; knowing something to be true in the depths of your being and having that instinct confirmed by the evidence of a child are two very different things. Every piece that falls into place makes him more and more certain of the course he has set himself upon, of the die he has cast and of the risks taken. Yet there is one piece, loathe as he is to use it, that could prove key to the success or failure of his enterprise.

“Would you like me to share another secret with you, Sophia?”

“It’s bedtime, silly Papa! How about a story instead?” He tickles her mercilessly for her cheek, delighting in her childish squeals of laughter.

“A story, is it? Well then…” He smiles again, slipping on his storyteller’s hat to more giggles and clearing his throat theatrically. “How about the tale of the Lost Princess? Once upon a time in a kingdom not very far from here there lived a princess. Now, the princess was very sad because her father refused to let her marry the man that she loved very, very much indeed…”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the bottom of my heart, thank you all for your well-wishes and prayers for my recovery. Fortunately, the treatments aren't too severe. but needing to take a pain medication that interferes with my normal brain processes can get very frustrating for someone like myself who kind of needs a fully unimpeded mind. So excited that I was able to get this one worked through much more quickly. I also forgot to mention on the last note that the Hammerchord is a musical instrument similar to a harp and a dulcimer-think of a harp lying on its side, and small hammers are used to strike the strings to produce music (although one can pluck the strings as Emma learned to). Also, as with earlier chapters, this one goes slightly back in time from the previous one; so, we are seeing something that Killian experienced earlier on the same day as the previous chapter. Thank you again for reading and supporting me; it's a truly humbling and rewarding experience. -JJ

_From King William II, etc. to Prince Killlian Sonoian_

_Brother,_

_While I have no doubt that your Miss Shepherd is convinced of the truth of her assertions, I simply cannot order such drastic measures without extensive corroboration from my own stewards and those of my tenants-in-chief. Should the situation truly be as dire as both she and you claim, would we not have other notices provided to us by nature and by our subjects whose own livelihood depends upon the land? Would the priests and prognosticators not be preaching death and doom in the streets if such portents existed in abundance? Furthermore, if we were inclined to give in to what will no doubt prove to be a moment of panicked hysteria, we would be short-changing the harvest severely—losing some whole crops entirely and not reaping the full benefit of others. We cannot countenance, let alone command, such drastic measures on our lands; and we strongly_ _advise_ _you, brother, to cease and desist._

_You may, by all means, continue to promote this rash theory of yours amongst the other nobles and upon your own estates, provided that you do not bully or browbeat them into doing your bidding nor that you allow the masses to run wild in their misguided terror; however, you should not expect many to follow your example. There is too much to be gained by maintaining the traditional harvest schedule and too much to be lost by attempting to hurry nature's courses along by hasty action. However, on the off chance that winter does arrive early, it is far more likely to strike in the north first, which means that our southern estates will have enough warning should your Shepherd girl's prediction prove true. And we are likewise confident that we have adequate funds in our treasury to make up for any deficit in raw goods._

_Sincerely, etc., etc._

_Post Script-(Written in the King's hand) I should very much like to know what has gotten into you that you jump and startle like an old woman at a flight of birds these days. Our entourage should be leaving within the fortnight to make our way to Thistledown, and we expect a right royal welcome for ourselves and the ladies who will be joining us. And we shall have a word or two to say to you regarding what we have discovered about the identity of your Miss Shepherd; either she knows not who she is, or she is not who she pretends to be, and I would have you on your guard. –Liam_

* * *

_From Will Scarlet, Esq., Captain of the Prince's Guard_

_Highness,_

_Our first gambit has received a reply, and her Grace is most eager to secure letters authorizing her to travel through our lands in order to meet the young lady. I enclose her letter and await further instructions._

_From Regina, Duchess of Malfi to Concerned Party_

_Dear Sir or Madam,_

_Your knowledge of your neighbors' odd histories and peccadilloes does you credit—I have indeed been searching for my step-daughter and, given the time past the likely, any step-grandchildren who may have found safety and asylum in your fair kingdom. Given the delicate wording of your inquiry, I must presume that the one has passed beyond my attempts at recall, but that hope need not be altogether extinguished. I beg of you, whoever you are or whoever your master, please ease the burden of a mother's heart by telling me what may be known of dearest Snow. That you possess information I am certain, for no search through your domains has been allowed previous to this very day, and yet your missive has finally managed to reach me._

_I do not claim to understand the furtiveness of your letter, yet it leads me to believe that your motives belong not to yourself, but rather to a superior who has their own reasons for wishing to remain anonymous at the present. However, my need for answers and the duchy's desperate situation require that I act with all haste. By the time you receive this, my amanuensis will have already posted the appropriate documents with our embassy at court and have petitioned for a passport and letters of safe conduct through Crown lands._

* * *

Killian examines both missives repeatedly, internally cursing both his brother and the duchess for their swift, decisive actions; Will had warned him that Liam's own spies would discover the information regarding Emma's parentage sooner rather than later, but he had not anticipated that her Grace would actually petition to visit without the slightest shred of evidence that her step-daughter was still alive, or that a child might exist. Almost thirty years had passed with no word of the missing heiress or claimant to the ducal lands, and yet the woman clearly viewed the advent of any piece of news as imminent salvation.

He vents further spleen on his brother's casual, arrogant dismissal of the warning and suggestions for surviving the coming harsh winter months. The royal coffers might be full, but Killian knows full well that a full King's purse means nothing to the common laborers who have their own fields to reap in addition to their required service on manor lands; in time honored tradition, as Liam would no doubt say, it would be the crops and harvests of the lords that would be gathered in first. The women and young children, also expected to carry their own weight when it came time to render feudal service, would be conscripted into the lord's fields to gather what could be salvaged of the harvest instead of being given leave to save their own crops and winter stores. Just as with the hard winter those 15 years ago, families like young Graham's would starve; those that didn't starve would sicken; those lucky enough not to succumb to illness would freeze.

 _Bloody stubborn, stiff-necked noble pride!_  Killian may never have wanted for food or shelter himself—a fact for which he would thank the gods, if he believed in them anymore—but having lived in the country for so long, having labored alongside the tenants and workers who help him manage and husband the land, he sees firsthand the struggle and the labor which circumscribes the lives of the commoners and of the poor. He knew precisely what he was asking of his brother and his king when he sent that warning, and yet Liam all too easily brushed aside the possibility of the mass suffering of their people—of  _his_  people.

He presses his head to the glass, wishing that Emma had not decided to take Sophia out to the apple orchard today so that he might talk with her about the implications of his brother's refusal and formulate plans to help mitigate any potential disasters. A strange ache runs through his being at her absence because he knows instinctively and from their new intimate familiarity that speaking with her on the matter would not only ease his burden, but that together they would, nay will, be able to devise several solutions to the problem at hand.

The fact that Liam will also be bringing meddlesome courtiers and irritating, unwelcome guests along with him only adds to Killian's distress and misery. Liam and the Council and Parliament would shackle him with a worthless, ornamental bride, not see that he is provided with a partner and an equal. They would give him an empty-headed, biddable queen-in-waiting, instead of allowing him to possibly ally himself with a genuinely noble woman of personal wisdom, of a powerful and independent…

The thought which crosses his mind can undoubtedly be construed as highest treason in certain quarters, but the fleeting image fills him with a bright flicker of unquenchable hope. He quickly tears through his papers, searching for the formal request that he remarry. When he locates it, he scans the entire document, desperate to determine if his memory has served him correct. He smiles, calling for and startling Fairfax out of his accounts.

"I've a new assignment for you, Edward. I want you to go through our section on the acts of parliament and rule of law. Make certain that we have absolutely every volume. I want you to go through everything, scour them all looking for legal precedent regarding the marriage or remarriage of potential heirs. Specifically, look for instances where there was no Heir Designate or Heir Presumptive. First, can parliament, the council, or the king forcibly compel an heir to marry without the individual's consent? Does this political demand have a basis in law, or can I refuse to conform? If so, what are the consequences of refusal? Second, in instances where there is neither Designate nor Presumptive Heir, does the potential heir personally have the power to reject a proposed candidate for matrimony? Third, if a marriage is already contracted or pre-contracted by an heir, do the Powers have the authority to dissolve the betrothal or the marriage? I want answers as soon as you can provide them to me."

"So, 'tis true then, sir? The council and parliament mean to bring you to heel on the issue of your remarriage? I must say, that's exceedingly bad form on their part! I understand their concerns about the succession, but surely they don't mean to disinherit her Highness!"

"I fear many of the people would not see it as disinheritance if Sophia were to remain a princess whilst a younger brother can still feasibly be produced to become heir to the throne. You know, Fairfax, that my views on women in power are widely different from the norm, as are yours. But if you can get me the information I require, there may be a delay tactic or two that I can use to keep the bloodhounds at bay. Or something better yet… If you please, Fairfax—time is not on our side, I'm afraid."

With a bow and a knowing smile, the steward gathers his things and moves to the farthest, least comfortable end of the library where the legal statutes are kept. Killian pauses a moment to reflect and gather his thoughts; Fairfax's assistance in the matter will be perfectly legal and above board, but the use to which his master intends to put said researches will be ruthlessly and universally condemned by the entire nobility. And yet, for once in his life, the rigid strictures of duty and honor might peaceably and perfectly yield to the siren song of his personal desires. He places several loose leaves of blank paper to the side of his blotter and a fresh one bearing his personal crest in the center. He meticulously trims his quill before dipping the nib in the inkwell and letting his inmost thoughts flow from his heart to his pen.

* * *

In consequences of her lover's mysterious behavior and decree, Emma happily discovers that her two hours' wait provides her with ample time to request and receive a full, hot bath earlier than her wonted time; for, while she has been able to bathe nearly every day, she has not found herself with the either the patience or the leisure each night to simply soak and luxuriate since her first evening at Thistledown—nor have she and Killian as yet made the discovery of the delights of a shared tub. However, his words—though relatively innocent—were filled with such unspoken longing, such anxious and yet joyful anticipation, that she finds that she feels restless and unsettled. Though the warm water soothes her muscles and the soap and oils pleasantly tease her senses, she cannot relax nor calm her impatience.

She had asked the maids not to disturb her again that evening and locked her door so that no one would be able to enter and find her missing, yet she remained in her own room, uncertain as to what instructions Killian might have given to his valet and the maids regarding his own evening's activities. Going up to his bedroom and curling up in front of the fireplace with a book sounds incredibly tempting, but she cannot risk encountering someone else who has access to his chamber and then having to explain away her presence.

She paces, unaware until this precise moment of recklessness just how much she has come to rely throughout her whole life upon keeping her thoughts and reflections at bay by preventing them through action. In her years with her mother, they had labored from dawn 'til late in the night on one task or another; after Snow's passing, she had kept similar hours simply to keep the farm running and her body and soul together. In her time at Thistledown, she has given her days entirely over to Sophia's care and education, while the few hours respite are spent in the stillroom crafting simples and soaps and more; her nights pass in pleasant company or pleasurable activity with Killian… Thus, it has been quite a while since she has allowed herself the extended leisure to truly think and examine her life and what she feels.

She discovers to her surprise that she finds she possesses more fulfillment, more satisfaction in her few days here than she owned in all her many years on the farm, even in the halcyon days of her childhood before her father went off to war and never returned. And it is not that she did not love her parents, nor was loved; it is that there was always a self-sufficiency to the love between David and Snow, that if they were the only two people in the world they should be more than contented with that lot. Emma was an extension of their love and happiness, but not essential to it; and further, she believes that there was nothing wrong with such an all-encompassing devotion. It was simply who they were.

But in being on the periphery of that intense devotion, Emma had recognized instinctively that such a partner, yea even a playmate, was missing in her life. On the rare occasions where they went to market as a family, she had noticed that most families were far larger than her own and that life in the village lent itself to forming happy, affirming bonds and connections with others of like age and society. Yet her parents chose to remain aloof, keeping quiet and alone on the farm and only venturing beyond when need required.

In reflecting on these thoughts and early impressions, Emma's mind goes a step further and recalls to her adult consciousness some of the long-forgotten memories and impressions of her past…

_Snow had sung her a lullaby and placed her in her little trundle bed by the fire hours ago, but the lingering excitement from their visit to the village had kept her up. She had played ball with another child for the first time, wondering at the sheer joy of having someone else's full attention for longer than a few minutes. Oh, her mother and father would both play with her, but they were quickly recalled to their various labors and tasks for the day, and the sheep tended to run away from the ball or her more boisterous endeavors to play. The horse and cows would nudge her and knock her over if she tried to engage them, and don't even get her started on the overly aggressive chickens!_

_Perhaps her parents' thoughts had been running along similar lines because their low voices suddenly became louder and agitated. "What about hiring a young boy to help me with the chores? We wouldn't work him too hard at first, but maybe his example would be enough to help steady her."_

" _We've been through this before, my love. We cannot take the risk. It's too dangerous to overly expose her or ourselves to another person; we don't know if they're still searching."_

" _I know that they are. Your father and step-mother love you, Snow; they always wanted what was best for you, even when they disagreed on what that "best" was. You are also your father's heir, and he will refuse to give your inheritance away."_

" _But what if he's still wroth? I cannot give up you or Emma, and if he can find a way, he will separate us. She may be his blood, but so am I, and her happiness will matter little to him. If he even allows her to stay, he will banish her to the servants' quarters, perhaps claim her as his own bastard so that the taint of your blood will never come near to rule and power. She'll live the life of the lowest drudge, perhaps beaten and starved for simply existing; and that's_ _ **if**_ _he's feeling generous!"_

_Emma had never heard her mother's voice tremble so with fear and pain, and her impulse was to "waken" and wrap her childish arms about Snow. But she heard the soft sighing of fabric and the softening of sobs as her mother pressed her face into her father's chest. "I disagree with your assessment, but you do know him best, my love. I wish that you had not given up so much in choosing me."_

" _David, if I had chosen anything or anyone except you, my life would not be half as complete as it is. I couldn't go on without you, nor would I want to. Every day, I thank the gods that sent you from your master's to my father."_

" _You should be thanking them that my parents were so thorough in my education! If I hadn't been raised on a farm, I wouldn't be able to provide for you now; and if I hadn't learned enough to become a steward for our lord, I would never have been sent to your father."…_

She gasps when the memory fades back into the dark chasm of her mind. Greater understanding and a fountain of pity springs from the new image of her past revealed by this recalled information. The greater perfection of her speech as compared to that of other farmers and peasants and servants, the oft remarked upon grace and beauty of her person and poise, her knowledge of such things as music and the hammerchord—a revelation which had genuinely startled her with its full implications… All of these and more point to her parents as having begun their lives less humbly than they ended, her mother in particular.

Yet what can this knowledge avail her? The truth had surely died with her parents, who had died young for certain, but whose own parents were likewise probably gone to the grave as well. Any chance of reclaiming her birthright had passed; her life was here now, with Killian and with Sophia. Even if her mother were of noble blood, from what country had she fled? Any inheritance had in all likelihood been passed on to the nearest living, undoubted relation. She could even have hailed from a kingdom that did not accept female inheritance of property or titles! And what manner of fiefdom could provide her with the same comfort, let alone the same love and care, that was freely given to her here at Thistledown? Here, she was loved for herself, not for who she was born to be or for what material possessions she had brought.

Emma shakes her head to clear it of these startling, troubling flights of fancy. She knows who she is and what she is: Emma Shepherd, governess to a Princess, lover of a Prince, owner of a small, but prosperous farm. She retains her independence and her own modest income. So, what more could a modest, honest, loving woman ask for?


	16. Chapter 16

Emma knocks on the hidden door softly, as she always does, unwilling to disturb his privacy by presuming to enter without permission. Killian had laughed and showered her blushing cheeks with kisses when she confessed as much after he had asked why she never simply entered. Even upon his declaring with both words and actions that as she herself comprised an integral, vital portion of his most intimate moments and personal space her presence could therefore never be termed a violation or invasion, she still refuses to break the habit. Normally, however, he would meet her at the door and greet her with a kiss, yet this night she only hears him bid her come to him.

He sits in his preferred chair, unusually slouched and staring into the flames and the sparks sent up by the cheerfully crackling logs. His playful mood from earlier has somehow been erased in the last two hours, in spite of time spent with Sophia, telling Emma that a great burden weighs heavier on his mind than even his beloved child can lift with all her innocent delights. She crosses the room quietly, perches on the arm of his chair, and reaches out to card her fingers through his hair; she knows that her silent comfort and calm, steady presence will eventually cause him to open up about what torments his thoughts. Killian smiles, slowly closing his eyes to better savor her touch, and reaches for her free hand to bestow several lingering kisses to her knuckles. He loves the strength and capability displayed in her fingers, in the calloused and work-roughened skin that yet possesses the tender power to soothe.

The silence stretches between them, uncomfortable for Emma only in that she has no idea how to ease his mental struggle; if it were not for the knowledge that something unspoken lies upon his heart, she would just as fully enjoy the quiet sharing of space as he does. He finally opens his eyes on a sigh and stares up at her wonderingly. “I had a plan for deliciously simplistic love play tonight. Watching you try to work out what was in my mind while we were at supper… I do adore surprising you in delightful ways.”

“And yet something has changed your mind? Or at the very least drawn from you your livelier thoughts; what is wrong, Killian?”

“Not changed entirely, but rather unpleasantly redirected for a time. I received a response from Liam today—he has heard no other reports similar to ours and, as such, does not believe there is sufficient cause to alter the harvest schedule.”

“But the crops! Killian, if he doesn’t order at least some of the crops in early then hundred, thousands will--”

“Will starve or sicken; the ones that manage to survive the privations and diseases will freeze or otherwise die in many an awful, lonely way, I know. But the reality is that my brother—and sadly many of the other nobles in this land—have no true idea of the suffering that this winter will cause. They have money, which can provide as much comfort and luxury as one is willing to pay for; they do not understand what it is to go without. I have ordered an inventory of any of our surpluses from previous years, so that when the stores from this year run dry we are prepared to ration out more for my tenants. But this only applies to my lands, Emma. I am truly blessed, but even I cannot feed the entire kingdom. Food will need to be imported, even the staples we would normally produce for ourselves; prices will rise and the poor will suffer the most. And none of this takes into account the fact that in some counties the people are spread thin—winter storms will make roads impassable and hundreds of farmers, herders, and their flocks will not be reachable until too late. All because they live too far from a village or town, or wouldn’t think to seek shelter there before the worst snows arrive.”

The desperate grief and misery in his eyes takes her by surprise, although she knows it should not; despite having never known the pinch and ache of a hungry belly, except for perhaps a night without supper as a childhood punishment, Killian genuinely feels the plight of the people who depend upon him and even those beyond his ability to comfort. Emma slides her hand underneath his chin and turns his face toward her again before pressing a gentling kiss to his lips. “Your compassion does you credit, dear heart. I may not know your brother, but it sounds like you could teach him a lesson or two about love for his subjects. It pains me to know that my king can so flippantly dismiss your advice, however, you cannot solve the kingdom’s problems tonight. We’ll think of solutions and plan for the possibilities tomorrow.”

His smile transforms briefly, a look and an emotion crossing his face which flies so quickly that she cannot even be certain she saw it, before tilting higher into a mischievous, devious grin. “I do approve of your presumption in being party to my scheming, Miss Shepherd, as you are quite the cunning partner in crime. But I think your mind is rather focused on my promise of delight for this evening than in aiding and abetting me.”

With a flick of her wrist, the fabrics of her nightrail and dressing gown part enough to allow her to straddle his lap, placing her knees on either side of his thighs while not closing all distance between them. Her own smirk matches his perfectly, a shared emotion and look that exactly expresses the same thought one to the other. “Merely thinking practically, my darling prince. You have warned your brother and done all you can for your people _today_ ; now is the time to refresh and indulge your own senses, so that you may be well rested and well satisfied come morning light.”

She nips at his full bottom lip before soothingly caressing the moistened flesh with her tongue. He places his hands on the bunched fabric on her thighs, only his thumbs softly and slowly stroking bare flesh. She takes his passive stance as an agreement to let her lead for the moment, giving rein to her desire to kiss and explore at her own pace. She makes each minute count, languorously supping at his quiescent mouth; stroking and enticing and enflaming while sweetly gratifying her own need, all the while impressing upon Killian her inherent and continued innocence in her quest for erotic discovery. Despite their months together, every new act and each lingering caress possesses a delightful freshness, a simple joy atop the decadent layers of primal passion and carnal excess that deepens and enriches their emotional as well as physical connection.

His hands begin to massage her through the tantalizingly thin layers of silk and linen, both barriers gradually creeping higher until bunched about her waist and exposing delicate, aroused flesh to the cool air. Before she can move to close the gap between their bodies and seek the friction her swelling sex demands, Killian’s grip shifts and tightens so that she remains slightly suspended above his lap. She whimpers at his denial of her unconsciously sought craving, hips rocking forward in supplication and fragile beads of moisture pearling on the increasingly blushing and quivering lips. Yet Emma refuses to speak, allowing her body to make its own demands, its own silent requests for the pleasures only he can provide and increasing the obvious sensual hunger in each more blatantly imperious kiss.

 He pulls back before she can suck his lower lip into her mouth once more and chidingly clicks his tongue at her. “I told you that I had plans, lover, and I fully intend to execute them. Especially as they include feasting on you as part of my denied dessert.”

With a strength of body that no longer surprises her and inevitably fills her with a distinctly primitive, feminine smugness, Killian rises from his chair while keeping her knees locked on his hips. He carefully holds her core away from him so that she cannot grind her dripping, aching sex against his dressing gown, despite the fact that she has looped her legs around his waist and locked them at the ankles. She mewls impatiently, latching on to the exposed triangle of flesh below his throat and laving it greedily with her tongue, sucking and biting the skin as if it were a more favored part of him.

“I believe a lesson in delayed gratification is in order for you, dearest, which is precisely what I had in mind for my insatiable vixen. I want you naked on your back, bend your knees to your chest and then spread your legs open—keep them as high as you can whilst still bent. Then spread your arms out above your head, comfortably. Do you understand?” Emma’s wicked smile shoots a bolt of lust straight through his body, from the crown of his head to his toes and from the top of his spine to the tip of his hard, needy cock. But he refuses to let her seduce him, unconsciously or otherwise, from his purpose this evening. He slaps the firm globe of her ass before dropping her on the bed and going to fetch his tray of delights.

Until Killian naturally, she had never fully realized the various benefits of having worked hard for most of her life—the flexibility and stamina honed in her years on the farm now lends itself to exquisitely different, yet quite as thoroughly satisfying endeavors. But while she has had her hands and legs bound several times already for her lover’s delectation, only once has he commanded such a demanding, difficult, and vulnerable position. Before, he had had her on her stomach, arms secured behind her at the small of her back and feet pulled up against her buttocks with a pillow underneath her mound that allowed for the perfect display and presentation of her sex. Remembering how he had warmed a pair of large marble spheres and teasingly worked them into her tight pussy has her clenching with need as she awaits his return, as does recalling how he had driven her to the brink of ecstasy time and time again before flinging her from the precipice. She wonders if this is the night where he introduces her to even more of the dark, wanton desires he had hinted were yet to come for them.

Emma tosses her head from side to side, burrowing a comfortable niche for herself in the fluffy pillows and dispelling some of the tension of keeping her limbs in position and of denying her body’s call for friction and release. With all the aplomb and officiousness of a royal servant, he comes back to her side carrying a large silver platter filled with several small covered dishes, a short candle, three paintbrushes, the set of marble spheres, and neat coils of white silk rope. Without acknowledging her, he sets the tray on one of the tables nearby and arranges something beyond her sight; when he finally approaches the bed, he carries her bindings.

He crawls across the bed, meets her gaze, and reaches for her left ankle, placing a gentle kiss to the thin, sensitive skin before slipping the first loop on and securing the knot. He repeats the process with each limb, tenderly caressing before binding her in place. He loops a line around her waist, securing to it the points already anchored at her ankles and knees. Her arms are secured at her wrists, tied together above her head and then to one of the finials of the headboard. Killian leans down to kiss her, but after only a fleeting brush of lips, he pulls away, carrying a pillow with him; he carefully lifts her hips and places the cushion beneath, angling her sex up so that it is presented to him as depicted in manuscripts of an ancient fertility offering. Finally, he takes a thick satin ribbon and carefully covers her eyes, tucking the ends under her head and careful to keep it loose enough for her to easily cast off.

“I want to make certain your eyes are closed so that you can focus on the way this feels, Emma love. But if you begin to panic, let me know immediately; this is all for your enjoyment and your pleasure as much as mine. It will not be for long.”

She nods once and leans into the caressing fingers against her cheek, darting her tongue out to lick the thumb that trails across her lips; they had discovered the very first time he first bound her that being deprived of both movement and sight had made her unaccountably, violently anxious and frightened, and that even when her limbs are free she does not care for the pressure of a tied blindfold against her face. She hears him walk away, as well as feels the loss of warmth radiating from his skin, and then the soft clicks and clinks associated with the silver dishes. He also strikes a match for the candle, she presumes, yet she remains as motionless as possible, allowing the anticipation to inexorably build within her, to fall and crest while rising ever higher.

The first sensation is that of the slightly cool, hard, and smooth marble ball gently rolling along her skin from the hollow at the base of her throat, down the valley between her breasts, and then up and around one globe, slowly circling closer and closer to the rosy tip. Yet he stops just at the edge of her areola, changes direction altogether, and rolls down the plain of her stomach and mound. Emma gasps as the fingers of his other hand tenderly spread open the lips of her sex, sliding the sphere through her juices before widening her passage and inserting the now warmed marble into her trembling cunt. Her muscles flutter wildly—half inadvertently and half with intent—deliciously squeezing his digits and the toy.

“After tonight, darling, this particular set is yours to keep and use every day. They come from the Far East and are meant to strengthen a woman’s passage; you can keep them in for as long as you want, or for just a few minutes at a time, but the idea is to use your muscles to prevent them from slipping out. Tighten around them and release, just as if they were my cock. This set was actually hollowed out, a chime placed within each; when used in harmony, the chimes will send out a vibration through the marble and into the walls of your pussy. Any time they strike each other with each contraction of your muscles, they’ll radiate this sensation…”

As he spoke, he had repeated the same teasing process with the second sphere, finally allowing the marbles to carefully clash as he spread her cunt around it. Emma lets out the most erotic of moans as he manipulates her clitoris in tandem with forceful strokes of his fingers to her walls and the spheres, explaining to her by touch how to use them in aiding any self-pleasuring she would perform for herself or for his enjoyment. “Be a good girl now, and keep them from falling out. I may not be able to hear the chimes, but I will see your sex clench and your mound will vibrate with the tension of holding them in… and with pleasure.”

She gasps as he swirls one of the paintbrushes over a nipple, covering it with a warm, sticky fluid—honey, if she had to guess, but she can also smell something fresh and sweet, something with a hint of cold to it. She moans as he pulls the paintbrush away, no longer tortuously stimulating her aching bud, a soft “yes” and a hiss coming through clenched teeth as he treats the other nipple to the same treatment while softly blowing on its mate. The warring sensations of hot and cold have her flesh tightening impossibly before he places something weighty and cool on top of the straining peak.

But her whole body shudders with suppressed tension and pleasure as his warm brush begins to anoint her clitoris with the same deliberate, tantalizingly warm pressure. She clamps her mouth shut to prevent herself from begging—as much as she wants to promise him all sorts of wanton, sordid pleasures if only he will give her an orgasm this instant, she knows that pleading will do her no good. Oh, it will give him plenty of smug satisfaction, but when Killian has so completely laid out his schemes, nothing will sway him toward giving in until he is good and ready; and Emma knows that the sensual torture can and will become much worse, if only so that her penultimate satisfaction will be greater once he orchestrates her release.

The paintbrush disappears from her skin once more, but she feels a stream of the warm liquid falling against the lips of her sex as if he is slowly, yet liberally pouring it onto her or letting it drizzle down from the saturated brush. The warmth moves up, trailing enticingly onto the flesh of her stomach and then onto the curves of her upper arms. Her pussy flutters wildly as she feels his fingers at her passage again, this time inserting something oddly shaped, yet yielding and cool—a berry or a piece of fruit perhaps? For the first time, her patience and need to see and know wears thin and she struggles against her bonds, inarticulately moaning for Killian to cease tormenting her. A dark chuckle and a delicate kiss to the tip of her nose are the only replies she receives from her lover.

She attempts to count the seconds and minutes, but it does her no good, for he cunningly refuses to engage in any sort of patterns that would help her focus and so dispel any of her burgeoning need. At last, he brushes her lips with something cool and then asks her to part them slightly, placing a strawberry between her teeth. He licks at her painted skin and bites into the berry before possessing her mouth in a furious kiss, all his own desperate desire spilling over into the creamy plundering. Emma responds in kind, savoring the sweetness that is his mouth combined with the cream-covered berry and releasing a frustrated, debauched moan. And still he eats at her lips, long after the fruit is gone, as though her very kiss were all the food he needed to sustain life.

Something of Emma’s desperation and his own growing excitement must finally break through the haze of combined bliss, for he breaks away suddenly and presses his forehead to hers. “All tied and at my mercy, and yet you can still command and unman me with a kiss, my love. I do not have the words to express how utterly your slave I am, how completely your thrall.”

He brushes his nose against hers before pulling back slightly and whisking the obscuring scrap of satin away. This close, her eyes cannot focus right away, nor can she hide the drugged, pleasure-denied glitter of lust and devotion flowing through her and into him. Despite his claims to the contrary, his words always strike her powerfully and directly to her heart; while normally she would respond with an honest gaze and a soothing touch of her hand, her bindings prevent such a gesture and she settles for one of his—brushing her nose against his cheek. His smile communicates as easily as anything else, so she knows that he understands what she means without words. He takes a step back and motions behind and to his left with his hand.

Emma gasps at the sight before her—herself, not just bound and helpless but utterly transformed into a living delicacy. She had been so wrapped up in Killian before that she had not noticed the change to the room, that now a mirror stands quite close to the bed—close enough that she can see her sex, flushed with arousal and stuffed with fruit and dripping with her own juices and honey; her breasts covered in swirls of honey, cream, and even chocolate while tipped with ripe raspberries; her skin decorated with yet more sweets, just as if Chef had designed her as part of some exotic, living menu. And she can see all this in the mirror that her lover has provided, so she can watch as he nibbles and savors her as his dessert, so (hopefully) she can later watch as his body fills hers and he rides her into ecstatic oblivion.

Without a word, he catches her eyes before untying the sash of his dressing gown and letting it fall from his body. He watches her eyes dilate with yet more lust, watches her sex clench around the berries and her mound quiver with wanting him. Just as she never ceases to delight in his form, so he will never _not_ be in awe of how responsive she is for him and him alone; only he can reduce her to trembling desire, only he has the power to access this sensual, abandoned woman beneath the proud, untouchable exterior she presents to the world.

“I want you to watch, Emma. Watch and feel; see what your body does to mine, how I ache and long to worship you with my cock buried in your cunt. I want you to see just how glorious you are, how beautiful and lush in your wanton depravity. I want you to feel the same aching lust for you that fills me even as I’m chasing my release, even as I’m watching myself disappear inside you and feel the glorious rippling of your pussy. I want you to see yourself as you come undone for me, as I take you over the edge again and again and again. Watch and see and feel what you do to me, Emma love.”

Every moment comprises of the most exquisite, divine torture imaginable as he patiently, methodically licks the sticky-sweet mess from her skin. She had never truly considered all of the tiny, oft-unnoticed areas of flesh susceptible to the languid flick of Killian’s tongue, to the gentle yet firm caress of his lips; yet it seems that he possesses his own map of her body, a priceless treasure trove of all the sensitive places most apt to make her moan and writhe and ache for him. Whenever she closes her eyes, she receives a barked command to watch or a sharp slap to her ass or a flick to her throbbing clit; he gives no quarter and no mercy as he plunders and plumbs every single nerve ending that will sing with pleasure for him.

When he reaches her breasts, she finds that she cannot look away from the mirror image of herself—the absolute hunger and determined focus in his gaze plucks a primal, carnal chord within her, so that her whole body does not cease to tremble, to vibrate for him like a perfectly tuned instrument. She watches him devour her flesh, taking her nipple and much of the globe into his mouth, lashing the soft skin with his tongue, suckling deep and hard enough to pull an answering tug from her still stuffed, yet desperately empty sex. Every accidental brush of his cock against her resonates in the depths of her core until she fancies that she can hear a constant chiming of petite bells. The honey, now cool and hardening seems to constrict tighter and tighter on her clitoris so that every throb of desire, every clench of her wall, every beat of her heart increases the pressure in the tiny pearl of desperate flesh.

By the time he reaches her stomach, impossibly close and yet infuriatingly distant from where she wants and need him most, she can see her greedy sex, relentlessly clenching and quivering under his assault so that the red juices of the berry gush continually from between her lips. A keening, inarticulately eloquent wail rises from her chest and out her throat before a begging litany flows from her lips.

“Goddess, mercy! No more, Killian! I can’t—I can’t—please let me come! Please suck on my clit and then bury your tongue in my cunt! I need you in my pussy because these fucking marbles are not enough! Mercy, please! I’ve been so good, haven’t I, Killian? Don’t you want to get to the best part of your dessert and eat up all my juices?! All for you! Only for you! Only you could make my cunt this wet, this ready to be fucked! Don’t you want to taste what all this torture has done to me? Don’t you want to lap it all up and then fuck me senseless? Just give me your fucking cock already! Oh, GODDESS!!”

A long, lingering lick up from the sensitive skin below her sex, through her slit, and across the engorged pearl of flesh sends her spiraling into a free-fall release harder than any she has ever yet experienced. Her mind barely registers the hungry slurping sounds and intensely desperate groans he makes as he delves for every drop of sweet, every piece of fruit, and every hint of her ambrosial nectar. Every flick of his tongue and each slide of his fingers sends another furious wave of pleasure crashing back into her body, bowing her back and rippling long shudders up her spine. Yet, she never stops watching them in the mirror, as commanded, and in the days and weeks to come when her conscious mind will remember those hazy first impressions her sex will clench and tremble with the perfect echoes of bliss.

She feels her bindings loosen and the slippery glide of the marbles as he pulls them from her still-quivering sex, and then the long, glorious drag of his cock being thrust deep into her wide-open cunt. She wraps her legs around him, sorry for the distance that prevents her from pulling him down into a kiss until she focuses on the mirror once more. She cannot stop from moaning at the absolutely delicious titillation of watching him plunge in and out of her, of seeing the lips of her sex as they embrace and stretch and pull along his proud, marbled, virile flesh. His hips snapping in harsh, yet beautiful rhythm reminded her of the wild, harnessed power of an unbroken stallion as they pumped ruthlessly, perfectly into her own; his back, long and straight, drips with sweat at his exertion, yet remains unbowed by his strenuous efforts.

His hands on her hips keep her from sitting up and pulling her body flush to his, a feral and primitive counterpoint to the tender considerate lover of earlier. Aware of what it does to him to watch her seek her own pleasure, Emma smirks and places one hand at her breast and allows the other to drift down to where they are joined, forming a “v” with her fingers so that her palm stimulates her clitoris and simultaneously strokes his cock. His own look of fierce concentration falters for a moment, as does his pounding, relentless pace before he answers with a grin of his own.

He effortlessly drags her up before tossing her onto her stomach, pressing her head down to the mattress with her face still toward the mirror before roughly mounting her again. His every stroke plunges deep into her core, seeming to strike her very womb with incessant, unerring accuracy. The end of every thrust forces a grunt or a cry from her lips even as she snaps her own hips back into his; mindlessly lost to the ancient rite, it is as if they seek to lose all sense of two separate bodies, whether by sheer force of will or ruthless physical annihilation.

Somewhere in her mind, she registers Killian’s fingers—slick with her arousal and aided with warmed oil—slowly working the tender flesh around her anus and on the puckered skin itself. She grinds her hips back against him, glorying in the moment and the ecstatic sensations as well as enjoying the sight of his so perfectly manipulating her body and her pleasure. When he carefully works a finger in, she gasps at the unfamiliar, dark pleasure of being stretched, being filled beyond what she knew she was capable of; his slow patience in introducing this a glaring contrast to the violent fucking of her cunt. His second finger and the inadvertent brush of the sheet against her clit topple her over the edge into another hard release; the vicious clamp of her sex milks his cock so deliciously that he cannot help but follow her with a victorious roar of completion.

Emma feels nothing but the blissful floating of a pleasure saturated body as Killian fetches the warmed, wet cloths he prepared and tenderly cleans her flesh. All she feels is a drugged warmth as he rubs oil into her arms and legs, massaging deep into the muscles so that they don’t twinge or cramp come morning. If she notices his absence as he meticulously cleans away their mess, it is only so far as she registers the return of his warm, comforting body before she curls into him and drifts gently off to sleep.

* * *

 

Though thoroughly sated, Killian finds himself unable to sleep and yet discovers a quiet restfulness in watching the rise and fall of Emma’s chest beneath the sheets. It is curious, what he feels for her—this potent mixture of protectiveness, possessiveness, adoration, admiration, and raw lust. He never once dreamed than anyone could so easily, so quickly become so vital to his life and his happiness—not even Milah wielded this much power over him, and certainly the only other would be Sophia. The two very different loves of his life who make him complete in ways that he did not before realize he was lacking; both who possess unwavering conviction in his ability to protect them and to care for them, though perhaps all unconscious. He would do anything and everything to keep them safe and, more importantly to him, to keep them with him—such is the strength of his devotion and his love. He only hopes, knowing that his messenger is already half-way to the capital by now, that when the time comes to ask for forgiveness that their love is strong enough for them to see the reason behind his actions, as well as the fathomless well of emotion which prompted them…

 

_To Will Scarlet, Esq., Captain of the Prince’s Guard_

_Go to Malfi, Will. Deliver this directly into the Duchess’ hand; provide her everything you have sent me regarding the Shepherds. Emma is the missing heir she seeks and, gods willing, will be more. Speed my embassy, Will, and do not delay leaving the kingdom for anything. Be prepared for the worst winter in 15 years; just get this message to the Duchess with all speed._

_To Her Grace, Regina, Duchess of Malfi, etc.,_

_Dear Madame,_

_I do hope you will forgive any perceived offense for the undue haste and urgency with which I apply to you, all without precedent, yet perhaps not entirely unexpected by yourself. I have just received word from my brother King William that you have these last eight-and-twenty years been searching for your step-daughter the Lady Snow White, who legally remains the sole heir to your lands and those of your late husband; he has also informed me that both he and your Grace are convinced that my daughter’s governess is the daughter of the said Lady Snow and the young man with whom she eloped and fled your duchy all those years ago._

_Indeed, I have long been aware that the woman I know as Miss Emma Shepherd possesses too many refinements in body, mind, and character to have sprung from anything less than noble stock, and I can and will enumerate the many circumstantial proofs which led to my conclusion in a later communiqué should you require them; furthermore, this letter carries with it my own personal assurance of your safe conduct throughout all crown lands on account of this lack of uncertainty, so that you may hasten on your journey here to be reunited with her at Thistledown Hall where she has been employed and lodged these past three months._

_However, I cannot claim my motives in sending this information to you to be entirely without bias or great personal, selfish consequence, and it is my  sincerest hope that this proposition of alliance will be the first—and as such, only—application of its kind which you will have cause to entertain. As you no doubt are aware of my position as my brother’s heir, I pray that you understand and forgive the somewhat arrogant expediency of this missive, and consider the urgent attendant duty with which I must ask you to grant your favor and blessing to my request for your granddaughter’s hand in marriage._

_For those of us graced by fortune and the gods to be born of noble and ancient blood, the holy sacrament of matrimony remains a most grave and serious undertaking, as the health and safety of the entire realm hangs in the balance of our decisions. Though I have known Miss Shepherd for only a few months and all of those in the false colors of an inferior, her manifold graces and temperament have ignited a fond and genuine admiration for her, such that had her supposed birth not posed an insuperable impediment to a union which would have such a vital impact upon the kingdom and the blood royal, I would have happily taken her to wife with nary a personal regret or concern. Knowing now, however, that her lineage matches my own urges me to apply to you without delay; for I firmly believe that a marriage alliance between our families would not only be politically expedient and felicitous, but that to be united together with her would bring us both great happiness._

_The bearer of this letter will provide you with the documentation from our kingdom which proves the Lady Emma’s identity beyond question, but I understand and sympathize with your deep-seated need to see her for yourself. At long last, your Grace, you are to be rewarded for your unwavering conviction that your step-daughter or her possible children yet lived: the confirmed existence and location of the rightful heir to your duchy and the opportunity of an equitable and suitable match for her to perpetuate your family’s august name and bloodline. I fully understand that, having finally found your true grandchild, your Grace would not wish to be easily or swiftly parted from her; however, I must impress upon you the sincerity of my affections and care for her happiness in marriage, as well as the desire and need for a speedy resolution to our such negotiations. Emma will need time to adjust to her altered circumstances as a tenant-in-chief—though her acumen as a small-holder is unparalleled and no doubt assist her in swiftly learning her duties—and also will require a great deal of guidance from such a one of your standing. Your Grace is most welcome to remain a guest in our kingdom indefinitely, or Emma and I can make an extended tour of Malfi and your other lands for our honeymoon so that she can remain close to you for an extended period._

_Yet time is of the essence, so please be swift in your reply. I do not doubt that rumors persist, but it has ever been the practice of our house to lend gossip no credence nor credit, so I trust entirely to your discretion in what I must say next. My brother the King is dying, your Grace, much sooner than a fond, dutiful brother would hope or wish to contemplate. Once he passes from this world into the next, I shall become king and my only daughter Sophia will then become heir to the throne in my place; I have been repeatedly urged to remarry and produce more heirs of my body, but have been stubbornly unwilling and uneager to do so until necessity in the form of a direct order of council has compelled me otherwise. Should you smile upon my suit, you may rest easy in your twilight years, cognizant that your granddaughter will wear a crown in addition to the ducal coronet, perpetuate your family name, and have a kingdom at her disposal in order to guarantee the safety, security, and felicity of her lands._

_I once more pray that my suit finds favor with your Grace, and honestly proclaim that I shall not find any rest or peace until I have received your reply. I remain, humbled supplicant as I am, your servant,_

_Killian, Regis Fil._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Jut a reminder that as this is a fictional work, some of the natural laws of the universe can be bent or stretched for creative purposes. The erotic acts depicted, both bondage and food play, should be engaged in with due caution and consideration. A lover should never be bound for extended periods of time specifically in moderately to severely uncomfortable positions; all bound areas should be repeatedly checked by the Top to ensure that muscles are not cramping and circulation is normal. Food play itself can cause opportunistic infections to develop, especially when using sugary substances on or near the vaginal area, so douching afterward is highly recommended. Be smart and be safe.


	17. Chapter 17

In the weeks before the onset of winter Killian’s days fall into a predictable if somewhat rushed pattern, much like Emma and Sophia’s only with less variety. But before progressing further with the narrative, it behooves us to pause for a moment, to take a step back and glance down from a heavenward view.

In the kingdom of Domitia, the House of Sonoian was not the first—nor, undoubtedly, will it be the last—of the dynasties to sit upon the throne and wear the crown. Indeed, Liam is not only the second of his name, but second of his line to rule. After 33 long years of political unrest, civil strife, and oppression of his subjects, King Jacobus IV of House Luteis was imprisoned by the united commoners of his realm and, after standing trial for his dereliction of duty and crimes against the state, beheaded. The man who became known to history as William I, his first cousin and son of his eldest aunt, was offered the crown based upon his royal blood on both sides of his family, his gender, and his understanding with the leaders of the populace that a fairer and more equitable government would be molded under his guidance and governance. He was a charming, vigorous twenty-four years of age with a pair of acknowledged bastards to prove his virility; conversely, Jacobus had been in his late forties with nary a pregnancy between two wives and was more devoted to patronizing the arts than to dallying with a mistress or enhancing the kingdom’s prestige and glory through wars or alliances.

As part of his effort to increase the legitimacy of his reign in the eyes of Domitia’s nobles, he chose as his regal bride Lady Matilda Gentian, Princess of House Luteis and younger sister of Jacobus IV; with an eye to winning over the masses, the story spread that William had loved his young cousin since childhood and could not bear the thought of taking another lady as wife and queen. Given the eight year age difference between the bride and groom, tales of a royal love match were doubtless much exaggerated, at first; but over time, the couple developed a strong, genuine bond of affection so deep as to lend credence to the earlier rumors. Their personal and political strengths complemented each other well and, despite the growing concerns over the lack of an heir, they remained firmly devoted to one another.

Indeed, for many years to come it was this conviction to remain faithful which made them enormously admired by and beloved of their common subjects—a popularity which saved them from an early aristocratic coup and entrenched them more firmly in the throne. After the death of Jacobus IV and the violent upheavals in the form and management of the government, many of the ousted nobles and former favorites retired to their little fiefdoms to lick their wounds and scheme in private. While some could naturally claim more land and status than others, by this time the propertied class had managed to consolidate their gains into vast swathes of contiguous estates, often centered around a particularly prosperous village and castle, or manor; thus, they were able to command an entire region’s worth of resources and collect them all into a small, easily defensible area. And while the time of roving, pillaging bands of knight of rival lords was long in the past, the nobles’ sense of their own superiority and supremacy remained.

Discontented with the Commons’ choice of William of Sonoian, with his unquestionably royal wife who stubbornly denied them the stability of an heir, and with his willingness to simply share the power of government with the “upstart rabble,” several of the most senior ranking dukes and counts hatched a plot to seize the crown and the treasury; holding the kingdom’s wealth and symbols of power hostage would necessarily turn de facto rule into a return of the absolute oligarchy they had previously enjoyed. The right words to the wrong servant, however, caused their plans to be revealed to a few influential members of the recently liberated and increasingly prosperous citizenry—a class now fiercely protective of their kindly and benevolent royal couple and of their freedoms under the new regime. Several would-be usurpers lost their heads, their lives and lands forfeited for their treason.

Thus, by the time Liam and Killian were born, the crown had direct jurisdiction over and possession of plenty of lands, allowing the king to provide his second-born son with the princely inheritance of the wealth and titles of the Duchies of Reynauld and Sommere. Had Killian been of less than genuinely noble and honorable temperament, enriching a “spare” with what amounted to a small kingdom’s worth of power and monies could have proved a political and economic disaster. But as it was, William and Matilda had raised both of their sons with love for each other and love for the people whose lives and livelihood were theirs to protect by their regal station; his own personal happiness was entirely subsumed beneath a bond of brotherly affection and his sense of responsibility to his and his brother’s subjects.

So, with the exception of a small estate just outside the walls of the capital city for visits of national concern, all of Killian’s lands lay in the southernmost region of the kingdom; and while Thistledown Hall was certainly his favorite, it was by no means his only residence. His other properties each boasted a small manor or hunting lodge at the least, though many retained defensive castles—the years of Jacobus IV, and indeed much of House Luteis’ dynasty, had left the south vulnerable to attack and even current quiet and prosperity could not completely override deeply ingrained caution. Diplomacy only works when all parties involved genuinely desire peace, and neither Liam nor Killian trust to words alone to keep populace and land safe from danger.

Despite finally sending off his orders to Scarlet and staying up simply watching Emma sleep, he wakes long before the sun rises and carries her gently down to her room; after laying her beneath warm sheets and blankets, he stokes the fire to ward of the dawn chill and hastily scrawls a note which he places on the stand by her bed. With a lingering caress of his fingers along her sleep-rosed cheek and an all too brief brush of his lips to her brow, he returns to his room and swiftly prepares himself for the arduous day ahead.   
Before retiring to his chamber last night, he had alerted Fairfax to the commencement of his plans; as he descends the front steps, he notes with gratitude and pleasure that Triton is saddled and ready to leave, shifting restlessly alongside the mounts of his steward and his three guardsmen. Killian effortlessly swings himself up onto his mount and allows himself the briefest glance back at the still slumbering manor before signaling to his retinue and setting heels to his horse’s flank. He sees that his orders were obeyed to the letter and each man is riding one of the most prized stallions from his stables, every animal bred for their speed and stamina, knowing that every ounce of their considerable strength and agility will be necessary for the day’s long travels.

Their first stop of the day is the estate buttery, where the work day has already begun; normally, the employees would still be asleep in their rooms in the dormitories or just leaving their parents’ nearby homes. While a goodly number of his workers at all of his various manufactories are the older, spare sons and daughters of his farm tenants, an increasing number of them over the years have been migratory laborers or individuals who had more recently moved to the area. His estate businesses were all considered quite revolutionary in that he willingly provided food and board in addition to wages, in order to encourage skilled immigrants to become fixed locals and to provide a modicum of independence for those farmers’ children who wished to become masters of their chosen craft.

Master Scott and the head vintner, Master Gilles, wait for him in the building’s massive doorway, light and noise spilling out from behind them. Each of them holds a sheaf of documents, ready to discuss the business at hand with their master and hand over their reports to Fairfax for later perusal and inclusion in the estate ledgers. Killian dismounts handily, moving the instant his feet touch the ground—a fleeting echo of a laugh in his mind that sounds suspiciously like Emma’s reminds him that he won’t be feeling quite so jaunty and energetic by the time he dismounts again in front of Thistledown.

“Master Scott, Master Gilles! My thanks for being so prompt in spite of the hour. I have a busy schedule ahead of me for the next fortnight or so, and according to reports I’ve been receiving it looks like our haste will be rewarded sooner rather than later. First, I would like to discuss the current needs for the worker dormitories. I want every single one made as warm and weather-proofed as possible; any repairs that you were thinking could wait, make them the first priority. Any spare moment the coopers have, put a hammer and nails in their hands; the blacksmith and lumber mill have been alerted and extra stocks should be headed your way. 

“If there are any other specialized items necessary, send a note to the manor; one of the footmen has been training as a clerk under Fairfax, so he will be in charge of organizing all such requests. I know that you haven’t had as much time as some of your fellows will have, but I trust that you have included requests for dormitory linens in your reports?” A brief nod from both Masters affirms their compliance.

“Excellent. Now, Scott… I believe that my daughter requested a special delivery of a cider barrel to her uncle? Go ahead and send it with a one-half shipment of our usual six month allotment for the court. We can’t afford to be sending our full consignment at present. First, because we might end up needing some for ourselves here, and second, because what we manage to salvage from this season’s harvest will probably end up being one of our rarer vintage years. The more we can save now, the more we can sell at a better price later on. 

“I also want you both to be prepared for an influx of some of my tenants to be staying at the dormitories and possibly looking to supplement their income by working. I remember enough of that harsh winter to know that I want my people safe, no matter the expense. At every town I stop through, I will be encouraging people to take refuge at the manufactories or to engage lodgings at their closest village or town. No one is to be turned away, especially once the cold sets in. And since idle hands are the devil’s playground, those with the necessary skills or willing to learn them will be paid for work. Find out what people are good at making, and I will see that you get the raw materials they need. Anything that can get them through the long months with their sanity intact and then help us survive the lean months afterward. The granaries, dairies, and butchers have been alerted to send an increase in your normal rations, but send them detailed figures as soon as you have them. Now, let’s discuss the inventories on hand and the projected yields…”

Master Gilles clears her throat meaningfully, pulling him from the thread of his thought. “I beg your pardon, your highness, but may I speak freely for a moment?”

“Naturally. What is on your mind?” The head vintner shares a quick look with her associate before drawing a deep breath to say her piece. A tall, well-muscled woman whose calves are easily strong enough to break a man’s neck, Master Gilles rarely allows anyone to see anything but the highest level of self-confidence in her thoughts and opinions. She’s worked hard for Killian’s family for 12 years, earning her position and stellar reputation for excellent grapes and vintages with fierce dedication and keen judgment. He trusts her implicitly where the interests and status of the winery are concerned.

“Well, sire, Master Scott and I were tallying the figures and discussing our options, and we had an idea regarding the court shipment. Since the King is going on progress and—provided the winter hits as early and as hard as predicted—won’t be residing in the capital anyway, we were thinking to hold off on the normal shipments. First, the carts being sent at their normal speed will not make it into the capital in time; they’ll need to be stored at whatever town is nearest when the first storm hits, and you can guarantee that no matter whose land they get stuck in, you’ll be paying a pretty penny for storage and likely a ransom to boot.

“Second, even if the weather should hold until the drays reach the city, the king himself won’t be there to receive and enjoy them. And with his Majesty out of residence, neither of us trust his Master Pantler further than we can toss the wee fellow. Finally, winter or no winter, the King will eventually be making his way down here. If we keep back the stores we would normally send, not only will we have the very best tuns to serve when he finally arrives, but we also can guarantee a nice margin of barrels and bottles to sell come spring and summer in case we find the coffers in need of replenishment.”

While the suggestion surprises Killian, he cannot fault the business acumen and logic which supports the proposed plan. Many of his estates pay their taxes by sending their raw produce and products to the royal court in order to keep the many courtiers and officers supplied with their necessary allotments of food and drink; part of a person’s salary for being a servant of the Crown or a member of the governing council was lodging and board while waiting on the King, so maintaining them all has always been an expensive prospect. Thankfully, Liam’s travelling court will be quite small in comparison to the full Court, but even that will come with a constantly ebbing and flowing contingent of servants, messengers, and couriers—not including the odd official who will no doubt be stopping by for hurried consultations with the King on matters of state…And though his cellars and storehouses are well-stocked, Gilles and Scott’s scheme will certainly worked toward easing the financial burden of the royal visit on his lands.

“It is a sound plan, Masters. It actually makes a great deal of sense regarding all of our court consignments, so if you don’t mind, I’ll make a note of this and implement it across the duchies. In light of this, let’s do as you say and scrap the entire court consignment. But I want you both the personally ensure that our best barrels are placed as far back in our storerooms as possible, clearly marked so there is no mistaking them if we are forced to sell or broach more than we anticipated. Agreed?”

The Masters readily assent, pleased with their lord’s approval of their judgment and his implementation of their idea. Undoubtedly, when the first new sets of orders arrived with such haste, they like all of the rest of the Master craftsmen and workers had grumbled and groused about the increase in their labors that the predicted short harvest would entail. A shorter harvest meant long hours now of working by moonlight as well as daylight, and interminable hours of lazy boredom during the cold months. And yet, beneath the gruff complaining lies a bone-deep satisfaction in having this particular prince as their liege-lord—that he shows such deep concern for his people, and not just for the lands which they tend for him or the wealth they provide his storehouses. Their lives, insignificant perhaps to history and the greater workings of the kingdom have cherished value and meaning for him; his honorable nature makes him a lord proudly and readily served.

He shakes the hands of both Masters and ensures that Fairfax receives all of the necessary reports, securing them in a weather-proofed saddlebag, before he orders his men to mount up once more and continue on their journey. “I’ll do my best to remind you, but if we can afford it come next planting season make certain to see that Scott and Gilles are duly rewarded for their idea.”

Somewhere on the road to the village of Thistle Glade, the sun peeks his head above the horizon and slowly begins to warm the early autumn air. When their horses hooves clatter across the cobbles of the town square, a small crowd of citizens is already assembled and waiting for him, their breaths occasionally puffing white as they stamp about to bring heat to their bodies. At the sight of him, the whole throng bows and curtsies as one while the aldermen step forward to greet him.

He shakes hands and greets the village elders by name, smiling and asking after wives and husbands, children, and grandchildren to each individual’s delight. The mayor hands him a sheaf of petitions and reports, which Killian holds onto while speaking to the crowd. “Thank you all for coming, and I do apologize for the earliness of the hour and for taking you away from your duties. I hope for this to be as painless and as brief as possible; Fairfax will read out the proclamation, and then you will be given a chance to ask questions. I have many towns and castles to reach today and in the coming weeks, so that time will necessarily be brief. However, if a concern arises later after further deliberation and thought, please bring it to one of your aldermen so that they can transmit your questions to myself or my stewards. Thank you all again for being here so promptly this morning.”

He motions Fairfax forward, who already has the document memorized but holds it aloft anyway while reading in a clear, sonorous voice:

“By order of his Royal Highness, Prince Killian of the House of Sonoian, Duke of Reynauld and Sommere, Count of Mortain and Lord of Iere. In that it hath been forecast and predicted that the coming winter shall be both long and harsh and thereby threatens the health, happiness, and safety of his well-loved subjects and liege-men, our most noble Prince in his abundant loving-kindness and generosity hath made preparations throughout all his lands and domains in order to preserve life, limb, and property to the fullest extent of his powers and abilities.

“First, may it be known that all citizens should look to the suitability and location of their homes and upon wise reflection determine whether the isolation of their abode be or not be too great to adequately protect them from the rigors of the said impending cruel weather. It is most conscientiously advised that all those living above one and one-half miles from the nearest neighbor or from the closest village, town, estate building, manor, or castle should arrange for alternative shelter. Those who can afford the costs are urged to seek winter lodgings by taking rooms at an inn or letting rooms in a private home. For those who cannot afford this option, let it be known that his Royal Highness will allow his subjects and citizens to seek shelter at the estate buildings, the manufactories, and the great halls of his castles throughout his lands, on the understanding that rigid discipline will be enforced in the dormitories and all save family groups will abide strictly with their own sex.

“Second, those who wish to work while lodging in the estate buildings, the manufactories, and in the castles of the Prince’s domains will be provided the opportunity to do so and will be compensated with a combination of wages, board, and food. All able-bodied individuals of proper laboring age will be expected to contribute to their keep in some commensurate manner. For example, children under the age of fifteen will be expected to attend daily lessons and to fetch and carry for the kitchens at one meal per day; other necessary chores will include cleaning the dormitories or hall, cooking, laundering and mending, mucking the stables, tending the fires, etc.

“Third, billeting will also be provided for the cattle and livestock of those who elect to take lodging in the Prince’s manufactories, manor buildings, or castles. In order to ensure that undue burden is not placed upon the estate, nor upon any single herdsman, his Royal Highness commands that all stored winter feed for said cattle and livestock be brought with the citizen at the time of his or her removal to the dormitories, etc. Further, in order to prevent later disputes, the Prince’s clerks will be present to take an accurate and faithful accounting of the inventory of goods, chattel, and personal effects which each individual or family brings with them, and all cattle and livestock will be marked with an appropriate brand if not already so distinguished.

“Fourth, given the arduous and dangerous nature of travelling during the winter months, any man or woman willing to shovel or plough snow and clear the king’s roads between storms should alert the Prince’s officials as soon as possible. Wages, bread, and board will be provided in compensation for this vital service to the Crown and community and such individuals are strongly encouraged to abide in their closest town or village in order to be present immediately upon the break in the weather. Subjects who elect to perform this labor are likewise advised to be fully aware of the possible threats to life and limb that may result from thus engaging their services.

“Fifth, to discourage boredom and generally quarrelsome behavior due to forcibly remaining indoors for an indefinite amount of time during storms, any individual residing in a manufactory dormitory, a manor building dormitory, or the great hall of a castle will be encouraged to take up a new craft or acquire a new skill and provided with the means necessary to accomplish it. At the end of the winter, his Royal Highness’ clerks will collect one-half of the completed items produced and the remaining raw materials while the crafter will be allowed to keep the remaining half of the fruits of their labors to dispose of as he or she wishes. Anyone wishing at the end of the winter to join a new trade or guild will be aided in obtaining an apprenticeship.

“Lastly, should any quarrel or crime be engaged in which requires the presence and deliberation of the Prince, a courier should be sent to Thistledown Hall as soon as the weather safely permits travel. Citizens are encouraged to ensure that such a situation does not come to pass if it is at all avoidable, as seeking redress from his Royal Highness will endanger the lives of many to resolve and quell the grumblings of a few. The normal laws and process of the King’s justice shall remain in force and in effect throughout the duration of the present crisis, and lawlessness, which would not regularly go unpunished, will be dealt with mercilessly while all lives remain suspended in greatest peril by cruel weather.

“May the stars smile on your comings and your goings. God save the King!”

“God save the King!!”

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The closest border castle on Killian’s lands lies only an hour’s hard ride from Thistledown Hall, but such a journey does not keep to the well-maintained roads nor does it take into account the dozen or so small hamlets and villages that dot the countryside in between. Given its proximity to his main residence, Thistle Glade was spared the least amount of time for questions on the schedule that he and Fairfax devised for his tour of his lands. 

As the day waxes and then again as it begins to wane, Killian has already made a mental note of several recurring issues and questions brought up by his citizens so that he can ensure their inclusion in subsequent orders to his soldiers, clerks, and Master Craftsmen and in future readings of the proclamation. Hopefully, doing so will ease any qualms his subjects have and make each stop end more quickly. The sooner he can see to it that all his tenants will know where to turn to for a safe haven, the sooner he will be able to rest comfortably in his family’s arms and company without the burden of worry or guilt. He may be a selfish man to long for a relief from the weight of his duties and responsibilities by whiling away the hours with his daughter and his lover, but he knows that there are worse vices with which a prince can indulge himself.

But those sweeter thoughts find themselves interrupted by the harsh reality of his orders to the garrisons of his castles. After clattering into the bailey and dismounting stiffly, Killian and his entourage are met at the entrance to the great hall by Sir Lac-Lan Domitae, his marshal for The Bluffe—a hulking edifice carved out of the stone cliffs that tower over the river which marks the border between Domitia and their southern neighbor. A younger man who keeps his face and his head bald as an egg, Sir Lac-Lan studied in the capital under Killian’s personal Senechal, Sir Mulan Domitae, and chose to serve the prince under his tutor’s guidance. The knight’s booming voice rings out in welcome as he leads the royal party into the great hall. “I know it’s a mite early for a heavy wine just yet, so I brought in a crisp, light vintage to help slake your thirst. Is it true that winter is arriving so soon, Your Highness?”

“Indeed it is, Sir Lac-Lan. Would that it were not so; not only will it be early, but if it is anything like last time, then the winds will be colder and the snows deeper than any you have known thus far. We might be spared some of it since we are so far south, but I would not bet my mount on it. I have a copy of the proclamation to be copied and distributed, but I’d like you to have a herald announce it at noon on every market day from now on.”

They fall to discussing the minutiae of Killian’s plans to save his people from destruction, he and Fairfax making changes in the margins of the town and castle’s copies with Sir Lac-Lan asking pointed questions and providing a suggestion or two based on his knowledge of the citizens of the surrounding area and the locals. Despite wishing otherwise and seeing the hour grow later, Killian finally broaches the least savory of the topics they need to discuss.

“You’re going to have a lot of extra eyes and ears about the place, Lac-Lan, but I want you to find ways to discretely practice drills for subduing an angry mob. I don’t want my people injured, but my soldiers fall under that category as well. Working together as a unit will be vital, but I also want one-on-one practice disarming to stun, not to kill. I don’t want to consider it, but if we have a mass of people rioting over food rations, we need to be prepared for when, not if. Desperate people can be convinced to do stupid things.”

“I have already had a letter from my tutor on this matter; she has suggested any number of ways and means by which we can practice without the townsmen being any the wiser. I too do not relish the possibility of shedding Domitian blood, but if disorder and lawlessness occur, we will be prepared to meet it, Your Highness. I know your next thought is to the safety of your citizens within the walls of this castle. I cannot prevent rape and assault in the town—although we will most definitely prosecute it if called upon to do so—but I have called in the town’s locksmith and locks are being added to the rooms which have been set aside to house families. They will be as protected as I can make them.”

Killian sighs with relief, thanking his stars once more that he has earned the fealty and faith of good women and men like Sir Mulan and Sir Lac-Lan. If only all commanders and soldiers were as concerned about the common weal and the safety of the people under their care. He shakes his marshal’s hand and then rises as the castle garrison marches into the hall in order to hear the proclamation; another round of reading and questions, then a hard ride to the north, and he end his day at the side of his beloved ladies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your positivity about this story, your encouraging words, and your patience! I have, on the whole, been feeling much better; but I have been doing some intensive outlining and re-working of certain chapters and passages to accommodate changes made to the later portions of the narrative. I hope, in coming months, to hear that you think the hard work has paid off. (:  
> Regarding the class and training of Knights: upon the decision for a citizen of Domitia to become a knight, the parents or legal guardian of the child sign legal custody over to their local lord or to the state (the average age at which children are selected to begin training is seven years old, the same for acceptance into the clergy or royal service). Thereupon, the child may choose to keep their first name or select a new one; however, by legally becoming a ward of the state or a lord, they legally renounce their family name and take up the name of their master or of the kingdom. Thus, as Knights in service to Killian, Sir Mulan and Sir Lac-Lan could use the surname Sonoian; both, however, have chosen the name of the kingdom (rendered Domitae as a family name) at the prince’s request.


	18. Chapter 18

When she wakes Emma’s body feels slightly sore and stretched, but only in the manner of a lingering ache from a hard day’s work—or in her case, a night’s worth of intense pleasure. She knows without opening her eyes that Killian has long since left—the sheets smell more of her than him and while she feels comfortably warm, the heat lacks a certain indefinable quality that she has only experienced when his body lays beside hers. She smiles as she imagines the care and caution it took him to carry her from his bed, down through the secret passage, and then tuck her under her own blankets gently enough not to wake her. The tender, beautiful gesture makes her heart ache sweetly, for she can no longer recall a time when her comfort, security, and happiness mattered to anyone except herself; she fully understands and accepts that she does not come first in his life—nor, to her mind, should she—but she warms at knowing he considers her welfare a priority.

She blinks her eyes open, noting the hints of dawn light peeking through the opened curtains and the blithely crackling logs on the fire—more tokens of his care for her wellbeing, since touches of frost line the edges of the window glass and a definite chill bites at her exposed nose and cheeks. Even as a part of her rejoices at this small proof that winter will indeed come early as she and Killian predict, another part of her mourns and grieves for the many sorrows which might yet be prevented, if only King William will change his mind. For all that they have not been together long, Emma thoroughly knows her lover—he will worry throughout ever storm, pacing fruitlessly to expel his anxiety, and then he will rage when reports of losses and casualties finally come in, and then he will blame himself for not having done enough and not having protected those for whom he considers himself responsible. And she will share and ease his pain as only she can, yet somehow she too feels the weight of duty and obligation pressing down on her.

Her place being with Sophia, she knows the unlikelihood of her witnessing firsthand, as Killian will, the cost paid by the people for the King’s decision to do nothing. She does not understand it or sympathize with the reasons which prompted it, though Killian at least appears to recognize the rightness in being overly cautious, in not wanting to spread undue panic, or even to being so bound to traditions. But then, Emma has also never been called upon to make a choice which affects so many souls, so perhaps it is she who is narrow in her thinking and cannot see the wisdom in patience, in waiting for events to transpire as they will.

She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs of dreams and banish the ghostly phantoms borrowed from future worries. She has her own, more pressing matters to attend to, staring with finding an old dress and shift in her wardrobe and then getting a princess ready to go help press grapes at the Buttery. Master Gilles had warned them both the other day, when she had extended the invitation to the first pressing of the season, that it would be hard, dirty work, but since coming under Emma’s tutelage and learning to appreciate the joys of getting mud, soil, sap, and flower oils on her hands on a daily basis, Sophia’s enthusiasm for arduous tasks has increased exponentially, especially if it involves a serious lack of cleanliness and a bath provided afterward. The Master Vintner had also informed Emma and Francine that according to tradition all those helping with the first day’s pressing wore white and asked them to do likewise.

Emma thanks her stars that Killian’s generosity did not extend to having a white day-gown made for her because all of her new dresses are too finely made for her to ever dream of damaging them permanently and none of them have been sufficiently worn or stressed to be considered old enough to be discarded after the pressing. She’s become accustomed to wearing a corset—apparently a thoroughly necessary undergarment nowadays—so she slips one on before donning an old shift and the palest of her old sack-gowns, needing to dig down to the very bottom of her wardrobe before she can find the chemise; briefly, she wonders if and when she discarded some of her older garments, or if perhaps she left some of her things out and one of the maids mistook them for castoffs. Unable to discover the truth of the matter in this moment, she picks up a strip of old lace she had removed from one of her mother’s gowns and ties it around her waist for a serviceable belt.

When she arrives at Sophia’s rooms, she smiles at the clear sound of an argument in progress and then at the sight of Francine attempting to button a light summer dress over last year’s thick winter chemise—an undergarment that their young charge has clearly outgrown. “ _There_ you are Miss Emma! _Please_ tell _Fran_ - _cie_ that that I can wear a _summer_ shift! This one is too tight and all _itchy_!”

“I don’t doubt that… I think we can safely do as she says, Francine. We’ll all be putting off our summer clothes soon anyway, and come springtime she’ll likely have outgrown this year’s dresses; when it comes to that, we’ll have to rework them or give them away or use them as scraps for quilts and bits of needlework.”

The nanny nods and begins rummaging through the wardrobe for a better fitting chemise while Emma helps Sophia out of her dress. As she unbuttons the front of her shift, she notices the princess’ lips pursed in a pout and her nose and forehead crinkled up in what she and Killian privately refer to as Sophia’s “troubled thinking” face.

“What is on your mind, darling? You seem worried or upset.”

After a considered pause, Sophia heaves a dramatic sigh. “I like _all_ my dresses… I don’t _want_ to give them away or have them cut up.”

“Well, we aren’t going to be doing any of that right now, sweeting. I was talking about several months from now when they no longer fit you, and if we can’t let them out at the seams and refashion them any further. But, when they are too small for you like this shift, they won’t do you or anyone any good at all just sitting in the wardrobe, will they?”

“No, but I could always come in here and just look at them.”

“True, you could, but then that would only make _you_ happy, and only for a little while. Now, you have plenty of fancy dresses, but some people don’t have very many dresses at all. Wouldn’t it be better to let someone else be made happy if you gave them a dress that they could actually wear, and wear it often?” Sophia’s face scrunches a little more as if Emma has presented her with a complex equation before finally nodding in agreement, at least in principle.

She thinks of another angle, trying to convince her serious, precocious pupil of the benefits of sharing and repurposing things that she wants to keep as they are. An idea hits her quite forcefully. “Do you remember the dress I wore when I first came here for a visit?”

“Oh, _yes_! You looked _absolutely_ lovely!”

“Well that dress belonged to my mother a long time ago, and it was the only nice dress I had; and since I had to come and pay a visit on royalty, I had to wear my nicest clothes, even though the dress barely fit me. But you see, I used to keep the dress locked away because even though it was very pretty, just looking at it made me sad with missing my mother. Then I wore it, and I remembered how beautiful she was and how the fabric made her eyes shine and how she laughed. By keeping it in the wardrobe, I let myself forget those happy memories as well as the bad.

“And now that I live here, I have a reason to wear and to make pretty things, and when I cut the fabric into pieces I will be able to make something that I can see every day! So, if I use some of the fabric in a needlework project, not only will I be able to remember the time that I wore it as a dress and truly met you for the first time, I’ll be able to remember my mother happily and also how special that it was to her, too.”

Sophia listens attentively through the process of buttoning up her summer chemise, but she begins to frown toward the end of Emma’s speech and the putting on of stockings. “I was _little_ little when Mama died so I _can’t_ ‘member her. But if I make something with these dresses, I can ‘member which one _Uncle_ Liam gave me for the ball where he danced with me _first_ and the one that _Papa_ had made but let me wear Uncle Liam’s instead and the one that you saved me in…”

“That’s right! You can keep your memories alive by using them to make something else!” Emma’s heart drops and shatters anew at the great loss both she and Sophia have endured with the deaths of their mothers. She knows that Milah is a very sensitive subject for Killian—one they have never truly approached—but certainly it could not hurt, asking if he has a dress or some other memento of her, for Sophia’s sake? But she refuses to let the melancholy settle and cloud her mind; for now, the sun is still shining and warming the earth, and troubles will find her soon enough without her seeking them.

She repeats what she remembers from yesterday, about the long honored traditions of the grape harvest that Master Gilles had shared—that in the days of old people wore white to the first pressing to appease the stars of the harvest; that the white of their clothes symbolized the pure light of the thousand suns in the heavens being colored bright by the joy given to man through wine; and that it was once whispered that on the night of the first pressing, the stars themselves would sometimes come down to dance with mortal revelers and taste the fleeting happiness to be found in a human’s arms. Emma warms to her theme, spinning lovely tales of children cavorting with the stars and making merry with the fairies, distracting them both from dark, sorrowful thoughts.

“Don’t know a thing about stars myself, young ladies, but I do know that we’re all like to come home sticky with sweat, sun-kissed, and ready for a nice bath. Yet none of that will happen if we don’t get ourselves along now.” Francine chivvies and chides them both, but with a good natured glint to her eyes that belies her apparent ignorance and disbelief. Clearly, the old woman remembers her own days spent bringing in the harvest and trampling a pressing or two, remembers the golden magic of early autumn nights and the power of a black sky dotted with diamonds and pearls of white light.

Sophia chatters gaily in the wagon, pestering James with questions about their horses or asking why the leaves are only just starting to turn gold, amber, and garnet if winter plans on arriving early this year. “Miss Shepherd, ma’am. I know you have been busy of late, but the Stable Master reminded me to ask you ‘bout the saddle soap he was hoping you’d make for him. Said you make it finer than the farrier in town does, and he’d like to lay in a supply down in the stables themselves for indoor work when the storms are ragin’.”

“I hadn’t quite forgotten, James, but we have all been a touch busier of late haven’t we? Tell him that I will get started on that right away; I’ve had the maids collecting the fire ashes for me, so I should have plenty to finish at least one batch today. Sophia, do sit down and leave the poor man alone! Now, remember what Master Gilles said about harvesting the grapes for wine?”

The princess purses her lips and blows a raspberry at Emma before turning around in her seat and folding her hands primly in her lap. “The _best_ days to harvest grapes are the _two weeks_ of the _first_ waning half-moon of autumn, and should ideally be cool and overcast or foggy, so that the grapes retain the mass-imum ‘mount of _moisture_. If the ‘cast does not include cloud cover or fog, the grapes should be harvested in the early morning hours before the sunlight hits the vines. Once the sun begins to warm the grapes, they will—ummm…”

“Contract.”

Sophia glares at her for the interruption, her expression so comically similar to one of Killian’s—raised eyebrow and all—that it takes a great deal of effort on Emma’s part to refrain from laughter. “They will contract and lose some of their moisture, which means less wine.”

“Very good. And when did she say was the very last day you could harvest?”

“With the first hard frost. Those grapes are used in a special vintage that only she knows how to make that she calls Crystal Wine, on account of the ice crystals that make it extra sweet. After that, the vines start to _hipernate_ for the winter.”

“The word is ‘hibernate,’ but very good. We shall have to tell your Papa how far along you have come in committing facts to memory; I know for a fact that it is a skill that comes in very handy for a prince or princess.” As they draw closer to the Buttery complex, they hear a faint but steadily growing sound of music and singing. The grape harvest in the Sommere valleys always draws a large crowd of migrant laborers, but the days of the first pressing possess a festival air to them which Master Gilles had warned them about in advance. Not that she or any of Killian’s Master Craftsmen would hire dangerous, shifty folk, but rather that an air of levity and a softening of social strictures was to be expected on such an occasion.

When James finally drives their team around the building, they can see the fields around the pressing vats filled with dozens of wagons and dotted with blankets and baskets. The entire assembly stops their song and cheers the new arrivals, a tradition not based on the status of the vehicle’s occupants, but rather on joyously greeting each new group of people to the celebration and to the easing of the burden of the labor. A woman picks the tune up again on her gittern and a fellow joins in with his pipe before the whole crowd begins singing once more, and the workers in the vats resume treading in circles. The simplicity of the folk who make up the gathering causes Emma to smile, and to thank the stars that she wears her poorest clothes; not that anyone here appears in want of food or walks about dressed in rags, but were she in her finer clothes she knows that she would stand out more readily. Disguising Sophia’s parentage and her nobility of carriage would be impossible—although she, Francine, and Master Gilles had considered trying to—but arriving dressed as a governess would have physically marked her as different from everyone else here, perhaps made her a spectacle or an object of curiosity... And the last thing she desires is any kind of scrutiny.

Thanks to the number of people present, it will be some time before the little group from Thistledown has their chance to press the grapes, so they wander about among the gathered folk—among whom are some of the Thistle Glade villagers who have developed the habit over the years of bringing trinkets, wares, and whatnots to sell in the carnival, celebratory atmosphere. A maid from the inn sells pocket pies for her mistress—big and little sized shells of pastry stuffed with meats and vegetables, or sugared-fruits and spices; the blacksmith hand-makes little metal discs with grapes, stars, and half-moons carved into the surface, hung on leather necklaces or bracelets cut to size in front of his wagon; a carpenter whittles an impressive number of the thin little pipes such as the musician plays on, or whatever little bauble a person wants made; a seamstress, taking advantage of the captive audience, sells towel linens for cleaning up after a go in the press, ribbons and strips of cloth for tying up hair, and little handkerchiefs with the grapes, moons, and stars motifs embroidered on them.

Emma smiles and laughs at Sophia’s enthusiastic questions for each trader and her obvious enjoyment of the festivities, loving to see these precious signs of childhood in a little girl whose birth has often made her act far too solemn and too serious for her age. She wonders if Killian was the same at this age, if he too was full of curiosity and eager to learn everything he could about every subject. The image of a small boy with black hair and somber blue eyes causes a strange ache in her chest, but she refuses to let thought or reflection take hold in her mind—this is a day for frivolity and youthful fun. She catches the newest tune quickly, singing and dancing around in a circle with Sophia and some other children from the crowd.

_Before cock’s crow/we’re in the fields/to pluck the grape/the harvest’s yields./By autumn’s moon/in fogs of white/empty the vine/‘fore morning’s light./Then on we tramp/and on we stamp/the earth to shake/‘tis wine we make!/‘Neath virgin feet/the wine is pressed/in vestal wreath/like stars are dressed./But stars they give/and stars they take/their joy received/in wine we make._

On and on, the verses and choruses repeat, faster and faster until the words blur and dissolve into a babble of meaningless sound and the dancers collapse with breathless, panting laughter. Master Gilles finally takes a break from supervising the groups at the vats and joins the Thistledown Hall contingent for a lunch of fresh fruit, cheese, and some of the pocket pies. She listens attentively as Sophia rhapsodizes over everything she has seen so far and all she remembers of the Master’s lecture, showing no hint of discomfort around such a young child who is her social superior or any impatience to be anywhere else. Combined with her obvious managerial skills, Francine states in a less then quiet aside, it is a shame and a pity that the woman has no child of her own with whom to share her trade during the day and to help keep her company in the lonely evening hours. Emma does her best to stifle her giggles when the keen-eared Master Vintner looks straight at her and rolls her eyes dramatically before looking back to Sophia. Apparently, such a discussion about her lack of children and husband has been had before, and it does cheer Emma to know that she is not the only one to “benefit” from the nanny’s marital well-wishing and scheming.

Finally, Master Gilles declares them ready for a turn at the pressing and clears a group of rowdy younger men and women from one of the vats, replacing them with a slightly more watchful, maternal group of workers. Each person’s feet are washed with a strong soap and dried before they are allowed to walk across a thick linen carpet and climb into the vat. Emma’s first steps into the press are awkward and stiff and she does her best to settle herself on the firmest footing before reaching out to lift Sophia in with her. The grapes form an incredibly strange walking surface, like walking over slippery, broken tiles; or like cool pebbles at the bottom of the stream, yielding as they are constantly moved about by the currents.

“Mind you, lasses! Keep a hand to the wall as you walk around—t’will keep you steadier and off your arses.”

“Language, Master Gilles! Our dear Sophia needn’t learn _quite_ that much about your days in the vineyard!” The workers in the vats keep up their marching but to a man everyone’s eyes are on the young princess and her governess. With all the movement around them, both are up past their ankles in grapes and juice; Sophia crinkles her nose adorably as she feels some of the fruit burst beneath her feet, and the sight, as well as feeling the sensation herself, causes Emma to laugh aloud. Slowly, but with great deliberate, stomping steps, Sophia begins to walk and circle the edge of the vat—obviously wobbling all the while.

“Ooooh! It’s cool and squishy, like stepping on a bug!” Her definitive exclamation of curious delight is met by cheerful guffaws all around. Eminently pleased with herself, she hops forward with more speed than grace, carelessly flinging out a hand to catch at arms, legs, or clothes that will help keep her momentarily steady and upright, without bothering for once to question whether such behavior is appropriate or not. With a shrug and a constant eye for her charge, Emma joins the round of pressing and once again lends her voice to the others whenever someone starts a harvest tune.

The sensation is indeed as odd as Sophia had described; soon, their legs are sticky up past the knee with splashes of drying juice and their dresses continuing to stain purple-red from the hem upwards. Eventually, the level of their floor begins to sink until more barrels of cleaned grapes are dumped in; the new weight further compresses the fruit and pulp at the bottom of the vat, forcing more liquid down through the heavy metal sieves at the base and out through the collection pipes into the empty barrels. As soon as one tun is filled to its mark, one man wrestles the full, heavy barrel out of the way and another man places a new one in its place, and the cooper secures and seals the top before the new wine is rolled off into the storage rooms to ferment. If everyone seems a touch anxious about getting the barrels filled as quickly as possible and the workers in the press put a little more force and speed into every step, it only feels at one with the effervescent gaiety and recklessness of making the liquid courage and happiness of the year to come.

* * *

 

After seeing a happily splashing Sophia bathing under the strict eye of a dotingly frazzled Francine, Emma quietly slips away for an afternoon in the stillroom; her heart and mind swell with pride at the reminder that her therapeutic and cosmetic practice has grown increasingly popular, with several of the older staff requesting salves for aching joints or tonics for coughs—both of which will be required in greater amounts and with greater frequency once winter sets in—and with many of the younger set requesting specially scented soaps and oils for their hair. And since everything she makes comes almost entirely from the excesses or waste of the household, it costs nothing at all to produce them, and the servants in turn do not have to go into town to fetch their necessaries and they can save their pennies for the better items they might want or need from the apothecary.

She had been incredibly pleased when the Stable Master had praised her recipe for saddlesoap as the finest he could find outside the Capital, although initially daunted by the sheer size of the order requested last week; she hasn’t yet made her way with Sophia down to the stables themselves and so has no idea of just how many horses Killian owns, but given the quality of his animal stock and the obvious care shown to all their tack and harnessing she certainly understands why so much soap would be deemed necessary. Thankfully, her already plentiful supply of ashes will only grow throughout the winter months, allowing her to be a little more discerning and liberal as to the quality and quantity of what she already has. As soon as she walks into the stillroom, she wraps an apron over her dress and begins sifting her ingredients into a large iron cauldron. She sets up logs on her side of the fireplace before grabbing a piece of kindling and carefully reaching through to set it alight from the kitchen side. Once burning, she places the smoking twigs in the midst of the logs and blows carefully, waiting for the fire to catch.

She puts the last ingredients into the cauldron and swings it over the fire to begin heating and melting. She hums softly, tunelessly as she goes about her various tasks for the day: placing a kettle, packed tight with lavender flowers and then filled with water, over the fire and then feeding a copper tube into the spout; setting a glass beaker on the ground by the hearth and resting the opposite end of the tube against the inner edge; going to her cubbies and gathering the herbs and oils to be added to the soap for scent; frequently pausing to stir the liquefying soap in order to prevent it from sticking to the bottom of the cauldron or burning; setting up another kettle, condensing tube, and beaker with rosemary leaves; going through her bunches of drying herbs and flowers, and then sorting them away into their proper cubbies or jars for later use. The needs of the whole household are definitely more than enough to keep her on her toes, especially when combined with her duties as Sophia’s governess.

In truth with so many people living at Thistledown Hall, it would be beneficial to all for Emma to take on one of the maids or a tenant’s child as an apprentice in the distillery, but she finds these moments of quiet privacy to be all too precious to her. She had at first considered Sophia, but it will be some time before the princess can join her on a regular basis—some of the plants can be quite toxic to children even in their normal state, but even more so once concentrated or in vapor form, while an adult’s body becomes equipped by maturity and size to handle exposure. Thus, any student in herb craft would need to be an adolescent at the least, and she has yet to meet one that she would trust to take the practice seriously and behave with the appropriate level of caution. So, for now, she plans on enjoying this sanctuary, this retreat from the near-constant socialization of the rest of her hours.

She begins to hum the pressing song they learned earlier in the day, but her entire focus remains locked on the now boiling cauldron of soap and on stirring it constantly for several minutes before deeming it finished and swinging the mixture away from the heat. Carefully but quickly, she wraps her hands in protective mitts and lifts the full container, pouring the steaming liquid into the long pans set on her work table. Emma gives the trays an appreciative sniff before setting the massive pot to the side and using her stirring spoon to spread the mixture evenly; as soon as it has cooled and slightly hardened, she will cut it all up into palm-sized blocks. The sight of the finished product fills her with a strong sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, not only at her expectation of the Stable Master’s approval, but because in this small way she has managed to help the entire estate; in providing for some of the seemingly insignificant needs of the people who work for Killian, she has made economies that will benefit not only the workers, but also Killian himself. She feels that she has lifted perhaps a feather’s-weight of burden from his shoulders, yet managed to remove that burden all the same.

As the lavender and rosemary oils cook out of the flowers and leaves and condense on top of the layer of water in the beakers, Emma pages through her mother’s journal. The Garden Master previously had been delighted by the knowledge Snow had written down in the herbal manual, and so had asked her to look into any tricks to help the fruit trees and berry plants grow better in the enclosed environment of the Orangerie; he had had some small successes in using fertilizers and in pollinating the plants by hand, but he found that their size and taste was always inferior to those plants grown in the outdoor gardens or in plots found in the wild. Emma had a vague memory of discovering one such patch with her mother and of Snow pointing to the particular herbs and flowers which grew up by and thrived near berries always. The remembrance had made her smile rather than saddened her and sent her off to look for a reference; as she had told Sophia just this morning, the loss was made easier by time and by remembering to hold onto the good memories, and then by putting them to good use.

After carefully skimming the oils from the beakers and pouring them into tightly sealed bottles, Emma begins the clean up process—washing and rinsing the tools used and putting the items away in their proper places. She then takes the bars of saddlesoap and stacks them carefully in a small wooden crate, placing a note to the Stable Master on top and letting him know that she will finish the rest of his order shortly. Just as she locks the door to the stillroom behind her, she hears the bustle of the kitchen increase in volume; a young groom ran in only moments ago with the news that the master had arrived home and that dinner should be ready within the hour. Emma finds the lad eating his messenger’s fee of a sweet biscuit and entrusts the crate of saddlesoap to him before placing her apron in the kitchen-linens’ hamper and climbing the servants’ stairs to the family wing and her bedchamber to freshen up for the evening meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For terminology purposes, an Orangerie is similar to a conservatory or a greenhouse; in this instance, the building lies in the very large courtyard, hedged in by the wings of the manor house; nearly all of the space of the courtyard is taken up by the building, which is roofed with glass. The various spaces for plant life are both functional and decorative. In regards to the pressing, even today people are asked to wear white clothes when doing a human-powered press. This tradition dates back at least to Dionysian rituals in ancient Greece. For references to Emma and Snow's knowledge of herb lore and holistic medicine, I have primarily consulted Rosemary Gladstar's Herbal Recipes For Vibrant Health and Valerie Ann Worwood's Complete Book of Essential Oils and Aromatherapy. Both books stress the importance of handling certain concentrated oils with extreme caution and care, as the concentrates can either adversely effect the skin, or your skin can absorb the oils much more quickly and in greater quantities than is healthy. Lavender and Rosemary are two of only a handful of oils which are deemed safe for direct contact with children, adult, and sensitive skin. If you wish to experiment, please exercise caution and it is recommended that you wear protective gear such as gloves and goggles depending on which oils and herbs you are working with and in which chemical state.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of the last three chapters, including this one, all take place on the same day. As Killian will be spending his days essentially in the same manner, there will be less of him in the next few installments after this; he will reappear every evening, unless directly stated otherwise. Please do not fret unduly over this as they will be snowed in at Thistledown Hall for several months and there will be plenty of time for Killian, Sophia, and Emma to interact with each other.

True to his earlier premonition, Killian dismounts from Triton's back with far less vigor and flourish than when he first mounted just this morning; despite his own aches and exhaustion he notices that Fairfax winces slightly, a sure sign that the man's old service injury must be paining him, and resolves to speak to him again about having one of the young clerks join Killian for these excursions in the steward's place. That and drop a word into the stubborn man's ear about having Emma make him a salve for the protesting, over exerted muscles; Fairfax may be proud and a perfectionist when it comes to the execution of his duties, but he too is only mortal and Killian would much rather have the faithful servant fretting at being left behind than risking his health out on the road. Yet another matter that will need to be seen to in the little time remaining to him.

Killian gives Triton a halved apple and gratefully strokes the lathered horse's neck before handing his reins off to the groom who will cool him, curry him, and see that his other needs are met before bedding the stallion down for the night. He gives a nod to the lad and begins walking into the house, James immediately taking his station at his master's elbow and relieving him of gloves and riding crop while making his report. "Master Gilles sends her compliments and says the first pressing went very well indeed. And though everyone about the place knew who we were, there was not a word spoke about nor against it. I believe the folk were right cheered to have their princess among 'em and seeing her with their own eyes, and of course babes will make no nevermind so long as a body will play as a child ought. Charmed the whole lot, she did!"

"Good. And what of Miss Shepherd? Was there any talk against her or any improprieties?" Going out among his subjects, with many of the villagers there no doubt recognizing her on sight, had been a bit of a test on his part; her change in circumstances was now common knowledge, so if any rumors had become attached to her name and their relationship they would have begun to spring up already.

"Not a jot, sire, though I would've spoke my mind against 'em if I'd heard such gossip. No, she wore much the same as she used to before comin' on as governess and worked just as hard as the rest when not tendin' to her highness. Quite the common touch she has and a right fine voice. No one treated her any different, nor looked askance; I think the folk about appreciate as she's lived just like them before and has earned her place in the household."

"No doubt, James. Miss Shepherd may be quite  _un_ common and extraordinary, but she treats all with dignity and respect; a trait I sincerely hope she will instill in my daughter through example."

"Just so, sire. Anyhow, tomorrow we're for the woolen manufactory after a brief stop at the sheep pens. Dependin' how long the weather holds fine, we might fair finish a full tour o' the estate."

Killian nods distractedly, already thinking ahead to his announcement at dinner and the many tasks yet to be completed for the day, and realizes that their discussion has lasted them nearly to the doors of his chambers. "Very good. I expect a similar report on the ladies' activities every day until I have finished the rounds of my lands. Meet me at the stables if you can, but if not then after the dinner hour and my evening with Sophia. Thank you for watching over them, James; it means a great deal to me, not to have to worry for their safety."

The older man bows deeply, sweeping a hand across the back on his neck in an ancient gesture of respect and fealty. "'Tis a privilege and an honor, my Lord."

Killian salutes the footman before turning to enter his rooms. He goes to his dressing room where he finds his valet, Gautier, waiting for him with a steaming bath and his evening clothes laid out and ready. It takes not a word for their seamless, simple routine to unfold: first the removal of his travel-dusted boots, then outer coat, waistcoat, shirt, breeches, and socks; his man silently takes each article and leaves his master to gratefully lower himself into the tub of hot water.

Upon reaching his majority Killian had put his foot down regarding the subject of his own toilette, a matter which had resulted in quite a shock through the halls of power at Court. A nobleman was not expected to bathe or dress himself; indeed, especially where said noble also happens to be a royal personage, such tasks are generally attended to be other men of high birth. Through their physically close position to the prince and their intimate placement within the household, these servant-nobles could and would control access to their lord and influence his private thoughts and help shape public policy, in theory.

However, even as a young prince of the blood, Killian had already become wise and grave beyond his years and found other men of his own rank and age to be of a less intelligent, less discrete bent; but requesting the service of older, more sober companions was out of the question—these men already assigned to his father or his brother as the more influential and more powerful members of the royal family. Thus, he had taken the radical step of declaring his privy chamber to be just that—private and off limits to anyone who might destroy the sanctity of his most intimate moments or betray his confidential trust. Even his valet and the maids who saw to the tidying of his bedchamber were not allowed to enter except by express command or invitation. He could be accosted or disturbed in any of the myriad other rooms and hallways of his home, but not here. Consequently, this was precisely why he never feared the exposure of his and Emma's liaison through being interrupted or surprised by the servants.

The heat of the water begins to work its magic on his sore muscles, gradually unwinding and uncoiling the tension born the unaccustomed, long hours in the saddle and of worry. Unfortunately, he does not have the time nor the leisure for a long soak, and the brief notion of his desire for spending a lazy hour or two with a certain golden-haired beauty tempts his mind and asserts its wiles on his body. He groans at his own lack of control before forcing himself to put such thoughts away until he is physically capable of acting upon them, contenting himself with a reminder that they will have the luxury of an overabundance of time for such enjoyable possibilities in the coming months; for now, he reaches for the soap—appreciating the notes of woods and citrus that Emma had blended for him—and works the grime and grit of the road from his skin. Banishing fantasies of erotic play in the water with his lover and bringing his flesh under control, however, do not occur nearly as easily.

* * *

Dinner is spent once more listening to Sophia's recitation of her day and all they saw and experienced during the first pressing. For a man whose entire day was consumed pondering weighty matters, her childish observations act as a cool, soothing touch to a fevered brow. He even coaxes a comment or two from both Emma and Francine, who, true to form, praises absolutely everything about the day as being the best or the brightest in her memory, excepting of course all occasions during which her dearly departed husband was still alive. But Killian instantly sees that the vigorous exercise, the excitement and novelty of the fair, and the time spent in the sun have burnished Emma's cheeks with a joyous luster more commonly seen by him only at the climax of their  _amour_. Immediately, he sets a part of his mind to working out just how to encourage such a healthy, becoming glow to more often grace and gild her lovely face.

Just before the dessert course is served, Killian orders his cup of coffee and then addresses himself to his fellows at the table. "As you all know, my days for the next two weeks shall be spent much as this one—in the saddle for most of the day and inspecting my properties to ensure that they are all prepared for the coming weather. So, my evenings shall be conducted thusly: I absolutely refuse to give up my time with Sophia, so I will spend an hour or two with her immediately after dinner; after that time, please make certain that every member of the staff knows I will be available to each and every one of you in my study for another two hours. Any issues or difficulties facing the household, the estate, or any individual will be dealt with in that time. Am I understood? Do you have any questions? Good. Now, I believe I have delayed Chef's masterpieces long enough."

The servers respond to the flick of his hand and bring in the final course. Emma takes the opportunity provided by this distraction to glance at Killian. She catches his eye quickly, as he was already looking directly at her; he motions to his coffee cup and then sweeps his hand toward himself. His face is open and inviting and combined with his gesture indicates that he would like her to join him in his chambers this evening, despite the undoubtedly late hour he will be retiring. She lowers her eyes a touch and nods almost imperceptibly—she will be awaiting him.

Once everyone has their desserts placed in front of them, Killian fixes himself on the rather devious course of asking Fairfax to tell again the tale of his injury, allowing the steward to entertain the diners with his storyteller's flourish but also to bring the man's aching back and thighs to Emma's attention. He knows the compassionate healer within his lover well enough to anticipate that she will doubtless offer aid in relieving the man's symptoms without Fairfax actually complaining of them; he also hopes to introduce the idea of a younger man replacing his steward on their rounds without unduly pricking the man's pride. At the least, he'll be able to speak to Emma later and can ask for her opinion and help in handling the delicate issue.

"Come, Fairfax! A story! I don't believe Miss Shepherd has yet heard the tale of your daring rescue of my father." The older ladies at the table start to twitter and fuss, adding their own voices in encouragement. The steward blushes at their enthusiasm and not so subtle requests for him to tell the story once more for their eager ears.

"Very well. I was quite the young lad at the time and dedicated to the life of a knight; I had the honor of being chosen to serve King William as part of his personal bodyguard in spite of my youth, being only eighteen at the time. It was around the time that your Highness was born, not that you'd recall that far back of course. There had been some unrest about the war, certain citizens of the capital whose warehouses had been seized by the government were quite unhappy—they had laid back quite a lot of supplies that the army required and had been hoping to sell them at a high profit to themselves. There had been public assemblies of people opposed both to the war and to the seizures, most peaceable, but raucous enough that the King and the Ministers did not go out unarmed or without escort.

"To this day, I'm not quite sure what caused me to watch this particular man so closely… Some of my comrades later swore that the stars spoke to me or pointed him out. Perhaps it was that he was paying no mind to the rally speaker and was watching the King so assiduously and coming ever closer to us in the throng. He was nearly to the King's horse when he shouted, 'So falls tyranny; so returns justice!' He drew a blade—an assassin's stiletto dipped in some sort of poison.

"I could see it all so clearly, the steel glinting in the sunlight as the man sung in an arc; he had pushed another man in the crowd down and used his trampled body as a ramp to launch himself in the air. I spurred my horse and charged the king's mount, Brigantius. As I had intended, the horses of the other guardsmen began to shy and sidle away from the King, creating room for my horse to shoulder Brigantius out of the way. We barely made it in time, but the blade pierced my horse's shoulder and went straight to its heart, taking the poison that was meant for the King. Enraged at my interference, the man shrieked at me and pulled a second stiletto, burying it in my lower back where the bones protected my spine. It slid to the side—I felt fiery pain for a moment and then felt nothing at all.

"I cannot remember anything after that save a great tumult and a confusion of voices. My horse had died underneath me and the would-be killer, taking the three of us down in a heap. Many of the assembled crowd saw us go down, saw the blades meant to murder their King and they reacted with violent rage, for our King William and our Queen Mathilda were so well loved that even with the unrest none had dared to think of harming the royal family themselves. Within moments, the citizens had the assassin bound hand and foot, delivering him to the King immediately for judgment. I spent weeks in bed, fighting the fevers and healing from my wound. The Healers claimed that I would never walk again, let alone hold a sword; the Queen, your mother sire, graciously paid for my care and told me that should I be blessed with a good recover, I could have my choice of positions. I was able to grasp a sword and blade once more, but could not wield them for more than a few stroke before the muscles of my back and thighs would cramp and spasm. So, I asked to serve the family in the country, and years later here I am!"

"But why would anyone wish to harm my Grandpapa? Who would do such a thing?" The table goes silent, Sophia looking at one and all with genuine curiosity while the adults glance at one another as if looking for someone to save them. Killian curses his own pride and stupidity, for while his daughter has heard this tale before she has never thought to question the reasoning behind the events nor taken the story so personally. With her young mind rapidly learning and constantly absorbing the nuances of adult conversation, it was truly only a matter of time before she asked such a difficult question.

"Because your Grandpapa was the king." He breathes a momentary sigh of relief at Emma's simplistic answer, but her calm explanation does not satisfy for once.

"But that makes him special and a royal… who would dare to try and hurt a king?"

Emma looks to Killian first, but his own discomfort with the topic of conversation is writ plain on his face; she will be alone on this one. "There are many, many people who would dare to harm a king or royal. I am not saying this to frighten you, Sophia, but I cannot lie to you either. The man who hurt Mr. Fairfax believed that your Grandpapa was not being a good king to his subjects, and other men who believed the same helped him to get close enough to strike. But it could just as easily been someone who worked for the kingdom's enemies or someone who believed that he was not the rightful king or who wanted to put another king in his place…"

She pauses, knowing that she already stands on treacherous ground and that a child of four might yet be too young to understand the tensions between grown princes and an old, dying king; too young yet to learn that sometimes a king's greatest enemies can be the ones closest to him in blood. "There are any number of reasons  _why_  a person might wish to harm or kill a royal person, but what you must always remember, Sophia, is this: you and your father and your uncle are protected at all times by good men and women like Mr. Fairfax. Whenever we go out away from the Hall, you have people watching over you and keeping you safe. As you grow older, we will help you learn to take care of yourself, how to help your knights to keep you safe in the event of an attack; but for now, you need to remember to show no fear or mistrust of your subjects here at Thistledown. Every person here—from Chef to the smallest scullion, from Mrs. Potts to the youngest maid—loves you. We will always do our best to never let harm come to you, and you are safe here in your home."

Sophia had leaned closer and closer to Emma until finally climbing into her lap and wrapping trusting, childish arms around her governess. Emma returns the hug gladly, pressing her cheek against the soft curls of Sophia's head. Each of the upper servants rises to leave, all of them passing by Emma's chair to caress the princess' cheek or lay a hand on her shoulder as if confirming an unspoken oath of fealty with the touch. She smiles becomingly at them, a polite word of gratitude for every one. Killian's heart swells near bursting at the sight—proud of his daughter, humbled by the devotion of his servants, awestruck and enthralled by the woman he loves. And when she looks back to him for reassurance, he reads her own love and loyalty for him in the crystalline depths and finds that he cannot breathe.

Her words held such great power, but the soul behind them is unfathomable, unknowably strong and deep. He clears his throat before standing and reaching out to lift Sophia into his arms. She contentedly snuggles into his embrace as he touches Emma's shoulder, firmly squeezes and then releases her before walking out of the dining room.

"Papa, would you tell me the story of the Lost Princess for bedtime?"

"Again? Well, of course I can, if my princess wishes it!"

"Did anyone try to kill the king from  _that_  story, Papa?"

* * *

Killian gracelessly collapses into his chair at his desk, grateful for the stoic, silent support. His wrangling with Fairfax about keeping him here at the Hall did not end easily, but the older man finally conceded when he argued that he needed his most senior, most trusted servant here to handle all of the requisition orders from each of the manufactories. And to work on the small, yet hardly insignificant matter of an heir's marriage. Killian could trust such research to anyone, but only Fairfax will be sympathetic while also thorough and discrete in finding the necessary information. A hard knock brings him back to the present and he looks up to see the Stable Master in the doorway. "Ah, Master Noris! Do come in please!"

"You asked for me particularly, your Highness. What might I do for you?"

"First, you should know that I've arranged for Mr. Fairfax to remain at Thistledown in my absences for the next two weeks, so his horse will not need to be saddled and ready in the morning. Geoffrey will be taking his place, so please have an appropriate mount readied for him instead. The second matter is also regarding appropriate mounts. Once winter sets it, there will be plenty of time for indoor activities; however, for the days when it is not actively storming, I think now would be a good time to begin Sophia's lessons in riding.

"I would like you to go through the stables and select a horse you think would work best with her, obviously not a young thing, but I leave the matter in your capable hands. Also, please select one for Miss Shepherd as well. She has not had a horse in years, and from what I have gleaned it was a solid plough animal that she rode bareback as a child. She will need to know how to ride sidesaddle and astride for when she accompanies Sophia during country rides and when we must travel to my other estates or the capital. She'll need to be at least proficient if not an expert by the time the king and his entourage arrive, although Sophia's progress will be as slow as it needs to be."

The Master nods agreeably, mind clearly already at least partially focused on rifling through his catalogue of horseflesh currently in the estate's stables. "I've had my eye on one mare in particular for her Highness for a while now—an older girl to be sure, but still spunky enough to work on a younger rider. For Miss Shepherd… I will have to give the matter some thought. You know she's a dab hand at the medicinal? Promised me she'd make enough saddle soap to keep the lads and lasses busy through to next year and has already delivered a crate! Not that I want you to be cutting into my budget, mind you, but not having to buy it from the apothecary in the village or having it shipped all the way from the capital will be saving us quite a bit in coin. I'll set the lasses to working on the princess' horse, get her used to small, female riders, and I'll keep an eye out for a likely mount for Miss Shepherd. Anything else, sire?"

Killian smiles at hearing Emma's praises sung, at knowing that he isn't just a blind fool in love and that everyone notices her finer qualities. "That will be all, Master Noris. I did know about the medicinals, but not about the other. Economies like this are just one of the many reasons you are my Master of Horses. Pleasant evening to you."

He glances at the clock and cannot hold back a yawn. Thanks to his and Emma's nocturnal activities, he has become used to long hours of strenuous exercise… But vigorous dalliance, even into the early morning hours, is not nearly as exhausting as spending most of a day mounted and riding. He takes his lamp and heads toward his chambers, nodding to each footman he passes and bidding them good night. When he finally reaches his rooms, he can feel his body dragging, as if weighed down by the events of the day and the thoughts in his mind. He goes to his dressing room and quickly strips, shrugging into a soft robe before moving on to his bedroom.

Emma sits in one of his chairs before the fire, a large tome in her lap. He takes a moment to appreciate the sense of rest and peace that immediately washes over him, the sight of her so at ease in what is clearly his personal space fills him with a soft joy, with contentment. She turns at the sound of his sigh, a tender smile on her lips. He quickly closes the distance between them, sliding his fingers under her chin to lift her lips up for his kiss. He keeps the caresses gentle and slow, a quiet glow of happiness and longing as opposed to a raging inferno of passion. "You are practically dead on your feet, and we stayed up far too late last night. To bed with you!"

He smiles and cannot resist teasing. "Are you  _my_  governess as well now?"

"When you are foolish enough to require it, yes."

"And what have you been doing while I was hard at work?... Ah,  _The Wars of Domitia_ , edifying reading certainly, but if the intent was to do anything other than put you to sleep there are any number of texts I could suggest you try instead."

"I suppose Sophia's question made me realize that history and politics should be a part of her curriculum sooner rather than later. I am sorry if I went too far tonight." She strokes over his jaw with her thumb, a gesture that he adores but knows that she tends to do it when nervous about his response to her words. He allows his fingers to tangle in her loose tresses, soothing himself with the silken slide of it against his skin.

"You were perfect, as always, darling. But you are right about one thing: I do need sleep tonight."

"Then I shall leave and let you get to it."

"You mistake me, Emma love. I—lying beside you—please stay with me? I find that I rest better, am more at ease when I wake and find you beside me. I just would like to sleep, with you in my arms." His speech is halting and even the dim light of the fire cannot hide the blush that reaches his ears. She reaches for his free hand and brings it up to her lips, carefully kissing the palm before turning to lace their fingers together.

"Lead on then, my prince." His answering smile makes her ache with its beauty. He places the book on the low table between the chairs, helps her to stand, and never taking his eyes from hers he guides her toward the bed.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many things delayed the posting of this chapter, much of it relating to my inner perfectionist. There is a long note attached at the end of this chapter dealing with the keeping of time in this universe. I've tried to be concise and clear as possible; due to chracter limits, I could not include an author's note on the Religion and Religious Practices, but I will add it at the end of the next chapter I publish, as it will be especially relevant. Or, you can find it on my tumblr and FFN accounts. Thank you for being so patient; you will be rewarded with several ready-to-go chapters in the very near future. -JJ

The rigors of the long day riding and the worries for his subjects finally take their toll on his body and Killian falls asleep almost immediately after gathering Emma into his arms and placing a gentle, chaste kiss to her lips. She carefully reaches up to touch the still tingling skin, wondering at the contradictory feeling such a casual, yet intimate caress can arouse in her. Is this compulsion to alternately cherish and ravish, to innocently comfort and to erotically enflame, unique to them or do all true lovers want in this way? She well knows that the physical experience of love does not always require that the genuine emotion reside in each person's heart; did his wife also need to be both mate and meet with equal fervor? Sometimes, Emma can almost sense the ghost, the presence of the dead woman who once possessed his heart and soul, yet she has never feared comparison. The only person who could reveal the secret depths of her mind lies at the bottom of the sea, forever lost and silent and unable to stake her claim. And yet her mark upon Killian's life is evident in his fears, his doubts, his nightmares. Whatever love she bore him made terrible scars rather than healing cleanly.

Emma moves her fingers from her lips to his, tracing the lines of his face—cheek, jaw, brow, nose—and brushing through his hair. He stirs only to lean into each caress, seeking in sleep the soothing power of her touch. She studies his face intently, rarely having the opportunity to simply observe him. There is still power in every lineament, authority in every patrician inch of him, yet there is a curious innocence, a lack of animation that makes him appear the tiniest bit vulnerable: a man, and not the dignity and pomp of the titles he wears while waking. She places a hand carefully over his heart, taking simple pleasure in the steady rhythm pulsing beneath their skin, and settles herself more comfortably against him. The ebb and flow of his breath and the thrumming of his heart slowly lull her to join him in sleep, consigning the cares of the day into the dark embrace of the stars.

* * *

The last half of Octavus and the first week of Nona pass in much the same pattern, with Killian absent all day, riding to the various townships and castles across his lands to ensure that all are duly warned and prepared for the harsh weather to come, and with Emma and Sophia conducting a tour of the different mills, facilities, and manufactories across the estate, their time spent pressing grapes and celebrating the harvest by far the most exciting and memorable of their daily adventures. Their visit the following morning to the sheepfolds becomes somewhat amusing in that the young girl finds herself inordinately fond of literally all of the summer lambs and stridently insists on keeping each and every one as a pet; dispelling her desire for them requires several close, malodorous encounters with the adolescent and adult members of the species and a reminder that the lambs will only be young for so long. While used to such noxious smells from the manure mixed into the fields and garden soil, Sophia reluctantly agrees, after much persuasion, that the combined fragrance of even a small herd of inexorably growing lambs would quickly overpower their adorable faces and diminish the appeal of their infantile antics.

Having blessed the stars for helping them extract Sophia from the pens without undue fuss and bother, they had hoped that the remainder of their day would be marked by less excitement than the beginning. In that, their prayers find answers far too well by the Master and the intricate inner workings of the woolen mill. Master Fuller—despite the fact that her occupation allows her to be constantly employed in every single portion of her craft throughout the year and thus will not inordinately rushed by the advent of the early approaching winter season—clearly feels that a personally guided tour, even for the princess, is an extravagant waste of her precious time. Thankfully, her journeyman apprentice is a patient, kindly young woman who does her best to appear at ease with the exalted status of their visitor and does not hesitate to attempt to explain the foreign sounding terms so carelessly brandished by the Mater Weaver. Truly, even Emma's eyes begin to glaze over at the increasingly technical language Master Filler uses about every single portion of the cloth making process—from the shearing of the sheep themselves all the way to the final round of chemicals used to set the dyes in the cloth, she and her charge recognize significantly less than half of the supposedly descriptive words, let alone comprehend or imitate the actions that they signify.

"As I doubt even your Papa understands absolutely every aspect of every business venture his people are engaged in, I don't think I'll be testing your memory on the cloth trade any time soon. If you develop an interest in it later, we can always go back and ask for you to go through an apprenticeship or at least receive some instruction from a journeyman." She means the statement to be reassuring, but it naturally sparks Sophia's curiosity and instigates queries.

"But I'm a  _princess_! I  _can't_  be a 'prentice!"

"'I can _not_  be  _an_  apprentice,' sweeting. And why could you not, if that is what you wanted? I do not mean that you would go through a normal apprenticeship, but if you find a Craft that you find interesting then surely you can learn as much as you want about it. Look at your Papa, for example: he is not a Stable Master, yet he knows a great deal about the horses and the breeding program. He knows much about farming and will pitch in to help with the planting, but he does not work the soil every day. You can be a princess and still have a craft you enjoy. Perhaps not ploughing the fields, but working in the kitchen and medicine gardens is considered a Craft skill; so is making soaps, oils, tinctures, and potions. We will find something you enjoy doing, do not worry!"

Killian publicly echoes Emma's sentiments at dinner, encouraging his daughter to be open to trying to participate at least a little at each craft manufactory; and he privately thanks her for discouraging the relocation of a herd of "pets" to the manor proper before promptly surrendering to sleep, his arms gratefully and firmly wrapped around his lover. The sky remains dark when Emma awakes to the sound of tapping at the door between the dressing room and bedchamber, Killian groggily untwining their limbs and being careful to keep the warm blankets around her body so as not to let the cool air nip her sleep-flushed skin. Unaware that she is likewise awake, he leans over to press a kiss to her brow and finds himself pleasantly surprised to feel the caress of her eager lips against his. As it has been two days without indulging in intimacy—the longest they had gone without, save certain days of Emma's moon time—it proves not difficult at all for her to convince him that a short, speedily enacted delay will not overly upset his plans for the day.

She watches from his window, grateful for the lack of light in the pre-dawn that keeps her hidden from any eyes that might accidentally track movement from behind the glass shielding the Prince's bedroom; even with the height and distance of the house between them, his figure exudes an unmistakable aura of barely leashed power that sends a shiver of need lancing down her body. She wonders if he has this effect on every woman, if he knows just how potent and desirable his innate control and unconscious, commanding presence truly is, and feels a heady jolt of echoed pleasure electrify her at the thought that those women who lust after him will never have their own curiosity about his prowess or their longing for him satisfied. As he fluidly mounts his horse , he manages to swing the beast so that he faces the house and looks up, directly at the window where she has been ogling him. Emma blushes as if caught, even though a part of her mind knows that he cannot possibly  _see_  her, because he surely must sense the weight of her stare. But then he and his guards put spurs to their horses' flanks and swiftly ride beyond sight, leaving Emma plenty of time to compose herself before going to wake up her charge.

Their trip to the lumber mill turns out slightly more successfully, Sophia rather enthralled by the general clamor of sawing and joining created by the various areas of the workshops, by the noxious yet chemically clean smell of the various treatment liquids, and by the exquisite craftsmanship of the carpenter's shop. Their first introduction is to the Master Wright who maintains all of the vehicles for the estate and creates anything necessary for the stables; Master Noris' charges may be the horses, but they find that Master Wright cares just as much for them by making certain that every bit of saddle and tack is properly fitted all the way to ensuring that the carriages and wagons are light enough for them to pull.. He even designed the small wagon which they have been using in their tour of the estate, specifically building it with the young, insatiably curious princess in mind, giving it high sides and a moveable shade so that she would be able to travel safely and comfortably.

He shows them the mews, where he stores and maintains all of the carriages Killian keeps, including the spacious and luxurious travelling coach blazoned with the royal coat of arms—used only when journeying to the capital or going into foreign lands on official embassies. While the conveyance may be such an insignificant thing relatively speaking, seeing it for the first time fully impresses upon her the scope and scale of Killian's life; she has casually spoken of international trade and alliances in her studies with Sophia, but she finally realizes that as the king's heirs either of them might be commanded to travel far beyond Domitia's borders. She does not, however, take her awed thoughts to their next logical step: that as Sophia's governess, she too might find herself pressed into service in attending her charge on a foreign mission; the true enormity of Killian's wealth and position blocks all else from her mind.

And the flow of her thoughts becomes further distracted by the transition from the quiet atmosphere of Master Wright's section of the shops to the cacophonous chaos of the mill's main floor. Men and boys alike talk freely and boisterously as they process the large, unwieldy planks of wood into their more manageable, usable sizes. Master Charpente joins them at this point in the tour, explaining the lumber lines in detail from start to finish: how the trees are first felled in the timberlands of Reynauld near the White Mountains and taken to local mills to be cut into large planks; these long planks then get loaded onto barges or sleighs and shipped to the various corners of the duchy and kingdom. Those planks will get sized down and transformed into building materials, or whatever people need. But the jacks and farmers in the timberlands also plant new trees, care for the growing ones, replenishing what has been taken and providing for future generations.

Most of the lumber to reach Thistledown, he explains, goes into repairing the old or fabricating new manor buildings; the rest dries and seasons, so that it can be used as firewood. However, it occasionally happens that Master Charpente or one of his apprentices finds a particularly unique bit of wood, which often finds itself transformed into a decoration or a piece of fine furniture; they also keep an eye out for matching wood grains if they need to repair something that has been broken. He takes them into another hushed shop, although this one is filled with quiet murmurings and the soft susurrations of wood carving or sanding taking place. Each apprentice maintains his own workspace and bench, tools and wood curls often covering much of the surface, while his completed or in progress pieces sit on display for all to see. When they leave, Sophia clutches a beautifully carved and deeply varnished figure of a horse—she had sworn that it looked just like her Papa's horse and the blushing apprentice had insisted that she take it to give as a nativity gift—and sports quite a bit of sawdust in her hair and on her clothes. Being less fragrant than after visiting the sheep and less dirty than after the pressing, she argues for being allowed to take a bath before bedtime instead of before supper and gets by with a change of clothes and a thorough brushing.

At table, Killian announces that he will be honoring the rest day of Startide on the morrow and on the week to follow, spending the whole of the day with Sophia to make up for their lost time during the remainder of the week. While living and working on her farm, Emma naturally knew about Startide and that many people considered the last day of the week as a time to rest and recuperate from the long hours of labor; but having only herself to rely upon to get all of the chores done and herself fed and clothed, she had fallen out of the habit of marking it or enjoying it. So at first, she had been quite surprised to learn just how seriously the day of rest was taken by all at the Hall—all but the most essential of staff received nearly the whole day off from their duties, so that they could relax and rejuvenate themselves however they see fit. Apparently, Killian's stance on adhering to the schedule of rest days remains as strict on his other estates as here at Thistledown.

Unaware of Killian's plans, Emma had already promised her time to the Master Gardener in helping to improve the plants and soil quality of the indoor kitchen gardens, so the next morning finds her in the Orangerie back in her oldest sack-gown and wrist deep in dirt around the berries. Her mother's notes had indicated that the wild berries tended to have several patches of various herbs growing around them—borage, nettle, and the wild varieties of mint and sage most commonly, but also the occasional leek and rosemary as well. Master Gardener consulted her own journals, finding references to spinach and lettuce thriving in and around berries; given that the interior kitchen garden was going to be functional rather than decorative, they had discussed various options and hammered out a plan for the whole plot—Snow's journals providing them both with new insights on herbs and flowers that supposedly helped all kinds of vegetables, fruits, and even other flowers.

Experimentation became their favorite word as they worked the soil and the plants, chatting animatedly. Just as they were getting started, one of the kitchen maids stops in and invites them to join the group heading into the village; Emma notes that it is Mayre, the first woman among the lower servants who had asked for a perfumed soap, and the first who had made overtures of friendship. This and other instances of acceptance from the people who live and work around her fills her heart in a way that not even Killian's love and Sophia's easy affection can touch—she has a place where she belongs and companions who care for her, such a simple, honest pleasure that she had no idea she was missing until she discovered it. She thanks the young woman and promises to join them on the next Starsday.

The next week sees Emma and Sophia spending a lot of time with the Master Gardener, out around the estate looking for those patches of wild berries and herbs before returning to the Orangerie to watch the current progress of their experimental plots and to get more of the kitchen garden and medicinal garden plants transferred inside. On one occasion, they even rope Master Nolan into their schemes, discussing the feasibility of keeping one of the hives in the Orangerie over the winter months; the poor man had been worried enough about the chances of his charges surviving such an extended hibernation period, but he cannot see how on earth they and anyone else with access to the Orangerie would manage to keep the bees contained indoors, while also not allowing them to sneak inside the rest of the house. For Killian, the same week sees him going farther afield and remaining in the saddle longer, often riding up to the Hall after supper and immediately closeting himself with his daughter before her bedtime; he blesses Emma's ingenuity and thoughtfulness, as she invariably interrupts his evening meetings with his clerks and upper servants by bringing in a tray of food for him to eat. The comfort of her presence at his side in bed allows him to drift off easily and dreamlessly every night.

Despite the general hurry and an air of tense anticipation, their days pass peacefully and quietly. Until the day that Emma and Sophia continue their explorations of the estate and something quite unexpected causes them all to discover just how temperamental, how idealistic, and how stubborn a young princess can be when she determines to have her own way in a particular matter.

* * *

Dated 28. Octavus. KWIIS7 (In response to letter of 15. Octavus; Receipt at Thistledown Hall on 3. Nona)

_Your Highness,_

_I have received your instructions and enclosed missive and am leaving within the hour to travel to Malfi. Word has reached the Capital, and is no doubt trailing his Majesty's progress, that the White Kingdom's northern ports have been by the first of winter's storms. I will make my way over the southern passes and ask the stars for mercy in descending the slopes before they are iced over. We cannot guarantee when I will next meet with a confidential courier, so I will take Locksley with me; he is from that country and can run circuits to check the passability of the roads and attempt the journey if he deems it wise or feasible. I will only send him if absolutely necessary._

_You should soon hear directly from his Majesty about a most interesting shift in the political winds—it appears that for some on the council, your willingness to take a bride does not satisfy all concerns and you will not be the only royal groom; your daughter's marriage has also come under consideration, despite her tender age, so be prepared to hear more on the subject from certain concerned individuals. If you will forgive my lack of tact and charity, one man stands to benefit the most by these two marriages now being discussed most seriously after your own, although I agree that it is high time someone took the King in hand and forced him to do his duty by his family and his people—the man in question should not have been the one to secure it, however._

_To no one's surprise, the most acceptable candidate is your cousin on your mother's side, the Lady Elsa, as Princess Marguerite of the White Kingdom cannot conceivably be wedded and bedded before next summer at the earliest. I do not like or trust their ambassador, Oliver; the man is an inveterate toady with more than a streak of cruelty and malice in him, if one credits the reports of several ladies and their servants who have laid claims against him. As he is the favorite of his own King, however, his Majesty has been forced to maintain relations with the man. While in Malfi, I will do my best to uncover more information about him and about their Princess. Forewarned is forearmed._

_I have also dispatched to Fairfax the books that he sent for, along with notable commentaries on the pertinent volumes. I wish you both the best of luck in finding the precedence that you require. May the Stars shine on your comings and your goings. Be well, your Grace._

_Sincerely, W. Scarlet, etc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time and Dates: The people of Domitia refer to their planet at Arva Cleme or Arva for short. It has one major satellite known as Luna Clarus, which has its own smaller satellite that can only rarely been seen from the planet surface, known as Parvus. Arva Cleme orbits an orange dwarf star, called Nova Aurant, at a 22.75 degree axis spin; the planet completes its orbit every 360 days, each Arvan day lasting 27 hours. It is the closest planet to the star in its system; there is one other planet neighboring Arva with an arid landscape and rocky crust/mantle; a predominately water-covered planet with two identifiable land masses; there are also several gas giants before an outer ring of intergalactic debris terminates the limits of this particular solar system. From Arva, only three of the gas giants are visible with the aid of telescopic lenses, of which there are very few; astronomy is a limited science as the practice of it is prohibitively expensive. Pastrusa, the kingdom immediately south of Domitia, owns the best arrays, funds an academy of science, and guards their discoveries jealously; they believe that the results of their studies will further the "ignorant, pagan" religious practices of the kingdoms around them, but do not believe those findings disagree with or negate their own monotheistic views.
> 
> As stated, the Arvan year lasts for 360 days and each Arvan day is 27 hours long. The months of the year are as follows: Primor, Cordus, Tertia, Quartus, Quintus, Sextar, Septimor, Octavus, Nona, Decumar, Undecimus, and Uncia. On account of the axial tilt of Arva, the planet experiences the four distinct seasons as experienced on Earth. Each month of the Arvan year lasts for 30 Arvan days; the months are divided into 5 weeks, each week lasting a total of 6 days. The official Domitian and Blancean days of the week are as follows: Lunastide, Cendresday, Coleresday, Imberesday, Aurasday, and Startide, also known as Starsday. Traditionally, both Domitia and their eastern neighbor Blanc take a rest day from business and labors on Startide, but there is no particular religious connection to the day; by contrast, Pastrusans celebrate Lunastide (referred to by them as Novanday) as a holy day every week, marked by religious services and ceremonies.


	21. Chapter 21

When she wakes and sees Killian off for yet another long day of riding across his lands and making all secure for winter Emma notices a definitive bite to the air, warning Francine to dress Sophia warmly, and shudders involuntarily as she moves about her room. She thinks, only much later and with the benefit of hindsight, that the Stars might have been warning her about the outcome of the days’ events and to look back carefully before embarking on today’s tour.

The day before had been spent at the dairy, where Sophia had been introduced to the cows who provided them with their fresh milk and butter, as well as the goats milked to make the favored local soft cheeses. Thankfully, all of the calves and kids of the season had already been weaned and moved to the main pens; likewise all of the chicks in the hen barns had reach an awkward, unfortunate-looking stage in their maturation, saving them all from a repeat of her attachment to young, adorable farm animals. Emma fondly remembers her own childhood fascination with the babes of all their beasts, but she also remembers just as clearly the first time she had truly become aware that these very same animals were raised in order to provide them with meat and clothing. She had never lived separate from the reality that their deaths kept her family fed through the winter. After a lengthy and heated discussion, she had secured Killian’s permission to take his daughter to visit the abattoir.

Sophia chatters throughout breakfast, flitting from one topic to the next without any apparent regard for logical connections. “…And if I catch you one more time, she said, I shall turn you into a loon! I have no idea what a loon is, but if a Star turns you into one for bopping mice on the head, it _cannot_ be good! But then I have never seen a Star come down to do anything, have you Francine? And why would she care about little old mice? They are _awfully_ small, but then they get into such mischief when one of the maids finds one in the house, and Master Noris says they eat up all the oats for the horses.”

“In all honesty, Sophia, I think the story is not so much about the punishment, or about the coney and the mice themselves, as about how you should behave toward others.” Francine looks over at Emma as though she has lost her wits, while Sophia stares at her governess with an eager, curious gaze.

“Well, the little coney was being mean and hurting the field mice just because he could—just because he was bigger than they and because he thought it was fun to hurt others. So, he is not very nice and you should not want to be like him; by his bad example, we are shown how the Stars would have us behave—by being kind to others, to do our best not to cause others pain or harm, and like the Star, we should stand up for those who cannot defend themselves.”

“You plain amaze me sometimes, Miss Emma! Such a fable from a silly song. Really!”

“It makes a great deal of sense, Francine, once you think it over. Children learn best by example and easy repetition; at first they simply absorb what is right and what is wrong, even though they do not understand the whys and the hows of it. But underneath the silliness lay the principles and abstract concepts that can be fully explained to them once they are older. Dig deep enough, and you can find the moral in almost any children’s tale or song.” Sophia nods with a regal solemnity that nearly sends the adults into fits of laughter—clearly, the young princess has already learned the political maxim of taking credit for the wisdom and ideas of one’s inferiors. When Emma finishes her tea, she clears her throat to gain their attention once more.

“Now, ladies. This topic of conversation has been quite fortuitous as today we will be visiting the Master Fleshers.”

Francine sucks in a breath, physically recoiling from the idea and appearing prepared to object to the planned excursion. Emma raises a hand to forestall her, belatedly realizing the brazen imperiousness of the gesture and softening it by placing the hand on top of the nanny’s. “His Highness and I discussed this very matter and visit already, Francine. Despite living on a farm all her life, she has been sheltered for far too long from some of the harsher realities of this world. Even if we wanted to, she cannot remain ignorant and innocent forever. Sophia, can you tell me where our beef and mutton came from last night?”

The princess darts her gaze back and forth between the two women before timidly answering. “From the kitchen?”

The older woman grimaces and cringes at the response, either from shame at having neglected an unpalatable duty or in sympathetic pain at the change that will come over the child with the imparting of distasteful knowledge.

“The food was prepared in the kitchen, but that is not where the meat came from. Beef is what we call any meat that comes from a cow and mutton is the meat of a sheep. Chicken, lamb, fish… All of the meats you have eaten come from one animal or another.” The silence sits heavily around the table as Sophia attempts to assimilate this new revelation; she does not remember her parents having such a conversation with her as such, but Emma takes pity on her little friend and gently takes one of her hands.

“Do you remember what I told you? That all of life on Arva has _anima_? People have it, plants and trees have it, and the animals have it. Even the winds and the waters and the whole of Arva lives and has _anima_ , and we are to live in harmony with every living thing. But in order for us to keep living, our bodies need food; and for humans, the best food for our bodies is to eat both plants and animals. We live in harmony by being good and careful stewards of the bounties of nature, taking care to honor the plants when we harvest them and replant and nourish what we have taken; we show Stelläe respect and honor by being kind to the animals as we raise them and grateful when they give their lives for us. So that you can better understand this and know of the sacrifices that are made in order for you to grow and survive, we will be observing the Master Flesher and his apprentices as they work. He and they are very well trained, so that the death stroke happens as swiftly as possible and so that the beast feels little to no pain, but it can be messy. The animal will cease to live as we know it, but its _anima_ will return to Stelläe. Now, it is quite chilly outside, so we shall make certain to bundle up properly.”

Because of the number of people dependent on the estate for food, most especially at the Hall itself, the abattoir sits very near to the manor, discretely screened from view by a grove of trees and just far enough away so that the smells and sounds death do not disturb Thistledown’s residents and visitors.  They walk in silence through the trees along the worn and well-trod path—Emma contemplative, Francine somber and anxious, and Sophia grave yet curious. The quiet feels solemn in a way that the child’s mind has yet to grasp or understand. She knows the words “death” and “dead,” but such concepts remain linked with a sterile, gentle absence like her mother’s. However, her nanny’s hand-wringing tension causes Sophia’s own apprehensions to grow, gaining size and power in the vacuum of sound typically filled with happy conversation.

The glade opens, revealing a wide clearing with large pens and spacious cages filled with all types of animals; here is the accustomed noise of life with the scratching of beaks and claws at the ground, the cooing and clucking and squawking of fowl, the lowing and mooing of cows and calves, the oinking and rooting of pigs and piglets, the baaing and bleating of goats and sheep. The pens and coops are highly populated, but none too full as to cause any of their occupants distress or discomfort. As they arrive, two young men herd a cow carefully through a set of gates—one man in front carrying her halter and urging her to follow him, and the another at her side, petting her constantly and speaking softly to encourage her progress. On the far side of the clearing sits a barn with several large doors along its side; one of these doors opens when they get close. Murmuring soothing words and gentle encouragement all the while, the men lead her into the barn and out of sight.

Master Flesher notices them not long after and breaks away from the group of apprentices he had been speaking with, each one carrying buckets of feed for their charges. As befits the rigors of his profession, he is a brawny and muscular fellow; on first glance only, he appears the type to be frequently caught in tavern brawls or be found in dark alleys, and one would certainly rather be at his side in those moments rather than be his opponent. But the exterior deceives in his case, for a kinder and more compassionate soul would be hard to find. He received a note from the prince just this morning, informing Master Flesher of the expected visit and conveying his concerns. So, in order to help put her at ease, the gentle giant immediately crouches down to Sophia’s level and sets a pail between them, asking if she would like to feed the animals first. Familiar with feeding routines thanks to their visits to other pens, she trustingly places her diminutive hand in his and allows him to lead her toward the chickens.

“Now, my little Madame, when you put your hand into the feed, you will notice some different herbs in among the other grasses and grains. I know that your governess is teaching you about herbs and such. So, can you tell me what chamomile is?”

“‘Tis a flower!”

“That is right. But did you know that beneath the flower itself are some leaves? You can use those leaves in teas and simples, because there is a special medicine inside each leaf that can help humans and animals to be very calm or to calm them if they are already upset.” Sophia looks to Emma for confirmation, who nods and smiles in response.

“There is another herb called Valerian that does something similar; you will not find it in your mix because we have to be very careful in how we handle that particular plant. And there are yet more herbs that are specific to the animals—cowslip, pigswallow, and henscratch—all to soothe them and keep them docile.”

They all share the bucket, Sophia throwing the feed enthusiastically but with little power behind each toss; the adults manage to be a little more liberal in spreading the grains and herbs over a greater area of the pen. After emptying the pail, Master Flesher ushers them toward the barn while still speaking with Sophia about what times of year the animals arrive under his care and about how old they are when they do. The barn is cool, but well lit when they enter; the cow from earlier now rests atop a large platform that has a ramp built onto one end, the slow, contented twitching of her tail the only movement from her. The two apprentices who lead her here stand by her head, still petting and praising her and providing them all with a calm atmosphere. Her eyes blink slowly open when she hears the ladies approach, but a scratch behind the ear from one of her attendants has her rolling them closed in pleasure.

Master Flesher takes his place on the platform just to one side of her massive shoulder; the herdsmen give the cow a last caress before they motion for Emma, Sophia, and Francine to back quietly toward the wall of the workshop. As they obey, the men back away as well, save for Master Flesher. He places a hand on the cow’s head, an expression of kind thoughtfulness on his face. “Thank you, Stars, for your blessings. Thank you for _anima_ that lives and has being in all of us. Thank you, Dancer, for your years of humble service: for the calves you birthed and the milk you shared. Thank you for this, your final sacrifice, and may Stelläe receive you with swift grace.”

After this devotion, he reaches out his hand to one of the apprentices, who places a long knife into it. With a quick, practiced stroke, he cuts deep across the massive throat and gently yet firmly forces the cow’s head down onto the slab. Blood rapidly pours from the neck and follows the channels carved into the table, while the big man continues to stroke her head and whisper comfortingly into the animal’s ear. Her tail swishes with a bit more energy for a few seconds until it subsides, and then the whole body stiffens and shudders for a moment. All is peaceful after the lungs heave sharply inward and then collapse as they exhale their final breath. The cow lies still and silent. **“NO!!!! Put it back!”**

Sophia’s enraged shriek startles them all and shatters the profound grace of the moment. Her normally cherubic face is twisted into an angry snarl, jaw clenched tight and chin set at a stubborn, furious angle. Before Emma or Francine can stop her, she lunges toward the platform and scrambles up, kneeling in the still gushing river of blood near the cow’s head. They all look on in horror as the little girl frantically scoops the hot crimson liquid into her hands and begins pouring it over the animal’s body—all while tears stream down her reddening face. In seconds, she is covered with the very steaming blood she is vainly and valiantly attempting to return to the dead carcass. The apprentices finally think to grab a hold of her and lift her away from the table. Sophia screams, desperately kicking at them with all of her might.

“How dare you?! I will see you whipped for laying hands on me and for what you did to poor Daisy! I am the princess and you _will_ obey me! Now put it back! Bring her back this instant or I shall—”

“Sophia Mathilda Catrine Sonoian!” The strength in Francine’s voice surprises even her, but Emma gratefully takes her cue and the pause in their charge’s tantrum.

“These men are doing their job, and _you_ dare to insult them? That is neither the way a princess behaves nor how a lady speaks! Furthermore, your attitude and actions are dishonoring to Daisy and to the sacrifice she just made. You and your people will not have to face sickness or starvation because of the food her body will provide. That is a noble and honorable deed, and you should be acting with gratitude.”

“I don’t want her sacrifice! I want her to live!”

“Daisy has lived a good, long life, just as Master Flesher said. She felt no pain in dying this way, which may not have been the case if she had grown any older. Now, I want you to apologize to Master Flesher—he could have hurt you on accident with his blade, so you gave him a terrible fright by throwing yourself on his worktable. And you will apologize to these apprentices for your rudeness and your cruel words.”

The girl trembles violently under the hold of the men in question, fury still etched into every soft line and chubby curve of her face. Her gaze remains fiercely unrepentant. “I. Will. Not! I am a _princess_ and they _have_ to _obey_ me!”

She struggles again, stomping on toes and twisting in their hold, her arms still slick and dripping with Daisy’s blood. When Emma moves to take her from them, it is with no regard to the ruined state of Sophia’s clothes; she scoops her up, careful to keep the girl’s arms pinned to her side to avoid being struck, and carries her bodily back to Thistledown Hall. The entire way, Sophia continues to rant and cry, screeching as she calls down all manner of punishments down on Emma’s head for handling her so, threatening all who refuse to come to her aid. Francine meekly follows behind, silently preparing herself for the battle she know will rage for quite some time.

* * *

 

Emma observes the sun sinking slowly past the tops of the trees and down toward the horizon with a mixture of longing and despair, beseeching the Stars once more for patience and for Killian’s swift return. In an unconscious gesture that has become habit when thinking of him, she smoothes her hands down the material of her dress at her waist—only to be reminded that today it has been allowed to dry stiff with blood. Upon entering Sophia’s rooms hours ago with a still indignantly shrieking princess, Francine had rushed the servants to prepare two baths and a tub in which to soak the stained dresses. But new heights of fury were reached when the child divined their intensions; she broke free of Emma’s hold, tearing her own gown in the process and completely ruining it. Ever since, the adults had taken turns trying to rationalize with her in vain.

Indeed, Francine’s comments and cajoling were far less effective; her reminder that Sophia herself had not only eaten meat before but had done so that very morning at breakfast was met with a prolonged moment of silence before the violent storm of raging and crying had recommenced. So upset was she at the revelation, so great was her horror at her own culpability in the perceived crime, that Sophia had literally screamed and wept until she made herself sick. This upheaval was followed by another round of innocently creative threats and cursing—for having sullied a princess with complicity in their vile killings—and a further lapse into glowering, sullen sulking. Despite emptying her stomach and expending massive amount of energy in her rage, she had refused to even look at the tray provided for her luncheon; but now it was time to prepare her for the evening meal and her father’s presence, and Emma refuses to let the Sophia’s tantrum continue any longer.

With a shared look of apprehension, Francine and Emma carefully approach the still pouting princess, who had curled herself on a rug in front of the fireplace after the worst of her anger had been vented. “Sophia. It is time to dress for dinner.”

The girl stiffens her spine at the sound of her name, but otherwise acts as if no one had spoken. Your father, his Highness, will expect to see you down at table when he arrives and we must get you out of those rags and bathed before then.”

“I refuse.” Francine looks at Emma pleadingly, always hesitant to disobey a direct order from her charge and quick to appease rather than chastise; Emma motions her away, leaving the nanny free to fetch the servants with warm water.

“Sophia, I know that what you saw this morning upset you, but you must understand that death is a part of life. When I was your age, I had already been taught that the animals we raised and fed by hand and tended to when they were ill—even those lambs and calves and kids that my father and I helped into the world with our own hands—were there so that we could eat. We, our bodies, need the nutrients that meats provide; without them, we do not grow as strong as we could, we do not thrive. I also know that you have a kind and tender heart and wish to cause no harm, and if you truly feel so strongly about not eating meat then we can find ways to allow you to do so and still remain healthy. But you certainly know and you must understand that it was your words and your behavior today that were unacceptable--”

“Unacceptable?! Butchering poor, defenseless creatures is unacceptable! When my father hears of this, he will banish you from this house! I demand it!”

“You are not behaving properly as Francine and I have taught you. And if his Highness decides that I have done wrong then that will be his choice to make.”

“Well he should banish you! You are no lady and you allowed that—that butcher!—to harm Dancer! You will be very sorry for this, **_Miss_** Shepherd!”

“One day perhaps I will, but not today, young lady.” Thankfully, Francine and several wary servants enter that moment carrying steaming buckets of water and other accoutrements for the bath. Emma gives the nanny a warning look, wordlessly begging her to remain resolutely firm with Sophia. The older woman visibly straightens her spine and puts a look to cut steel on her kindly face.

“Now, my girl… You shall be bathed one way or another before your father gets home. Will you cooperate with me?” Sophia turns her scathing expression of disdain from her governess and onto Francine, a look such that Emma inwardly marvels how one so very young has already learned to show the kind of cold dignity and contained fury that will serve her well at court in years to come. _What a queen she will make!_

Sophia does not respond, but turns her back to them all with an aggrieved huff and rigidly holds her arms out to the side; Francine sighs in relief, moves forward—after another quick glance for encouragement from Emma—, and begins to disrobe the child while the servants ready the bath. With her own slow exhale of release, Emma goes to leave the room and finally return to her own in order to rid herself of the stiff, uncomfortable dress and clean the rest of the dried blood from her skin. She stops short at the sight of a fiercely scowling Killian, who beckons her to follow him with a sharp flick of his hand. So much for a peaceful bath and a moment to breathe.

* * *

 

Killian and his guards ride into the stable yard just as the sun truly begins to set in earnest. The stops for the day were the last he has scheduled—save for a journey to the border fortress and town of Dionya that will take more than a single day to conclude—and had all passed swiftly and easily. Thanks to advance copies of the proclamation, people from scattered settlements had already heard of the weather predictions and made their plans accordingly, arriving well in advance of their prince. He had met several families as well as individuals who had seen the wisdom of his suggestions and provisions and already moved into the winter quarters of the manufactories or other accommodations in town. They were all tense, waiting impatiently and nervously for the cold and the storms, but they were content to be among friends and neighbors rather than isolated and alone. Today did not provide the first sign of progress he has seen, but being nearly the last trip and observing first hand that all was working out according to plan gives him a heart full of hope—that his worries and concern for his people has genuinely benefited them.

His heart is the lightest he can remember it being since Emma’s keen eyes observed what others had not; until he receives positive confirmation of the first winter storms he will not set foot out of his home—a fact that he has kept secret from the ladies of the house so that he can surprise them with several days devoted solely to spending his time with them, and to introducing them to the horses he and Master Noris have selected for their equestrian exercise. He brushes James aside in his haste, although the older man huffs and puffs in his rush to speak with his master, and mounts the stairs to the family wing two at a time, pleasantly anxious to see his ladies. Yet he hears a strident, sharp tone of voice that nearly halts him in his tracks. Cautiously and quietly, he makes for the open door of Sophia’s suite; through the portal, he spies Emma kneeling close to his daughter and speaking in a low, reasoning voice. He wonders just where on earth he or his factors managed to purchase cloth in such a ghastly shade of rusty-brown when it hits him like the kick of a horse to his entire torso—both of them are covered in blood.

Obviously, his eyes can see that they are both hale and whole and hear that neither speaks with the quavering weakness of the injured; yet a primitive part of his mind urges him to charge into the room, hastily undress the both of them, and observe with his own eyes that their flesh remains undamaged and unharmed. Not since the weary, watchful hours of Milah’s childbed experience has Killian felt such agonizing fear and helplessness. But he sets himself to listen to their conversation, and rapidly finds his fears transforming into a startled chill and a warming, affronted fury.

“…You are not a lady!...You will be sorry for this, _Miss_ Shepherd!” He can hardly believe that his own child is capable of such callous disregard for the feelings of others. Not until this moment has there even been a hint of discord between Sophia and her governess, and yet in her pique, his daughter demonstrates just how clearly she understands and has absorbed the rigid social hierarchy, to an extent that she uses that knowledge as a weapon. And that the entitled, imperious tone sounds so much like Milah is almost more than he can bear at this moment. Whatever the basis for the present disagreement, Killian intends to have a very long conversation with Sophia about the time and place for pulling rank—and about manners. He observes the plea for strength and fortitude in Emma’s glance to Francine, watches as Sophia ungraciously submits to the attentions of the servants. When Emma finally looks up and meets his gaze, she startles and hesitates; he gestures her to follow him, unaware that she could possibly misconstrued the obvious anger in his expression.

* * *

 

Emma trails a short distance behind Killian, her strides neither as long nor as swift as his and her progress somewhat hampered by her skirts. His preoccupation made plain in the inflexible line of his shoulders and spine, she carefully scans the area for footmen and other servants, relieved when she sees no one else can feasibly observe them. For the first time since the beginning of their relationship, she finds herself uncertain as to what has provoked his ire and what his mood means for her continued presence by his side. He had attempted to dissuade her from the trip to the fleshers today, but had ultimately bowed to her rationale; the evidence clearly points to things not having occurred as they ought to have, so a certain amount of smug superiority was to be expected. Not this volubly silent rage. His steps lead them directly to the door of her rooms, surprising her greatly; simply removing themselves far enough down the hall so as not to be overheard by the princess makes sense, but the fact that he wants to speak with her behind closed doors causes her to tremble internally.

Mind clouding up with fear and anxiety over the potentially enormous consequences of her error in judgment, Sophia’s words come back to her like the shock of a lash, striking her forcefully with their hated truth—she is _not_ a lady, she is _not_ worthy to be a governess to anybody, and even less  worthy of Killian’s respect and affection. She is their inferior, and in making this blunder she has provided him with undeniable proof of how unsuitable a companion she is, both for his daughter and for himself. Filled with sudden panic, she imagines him removing her from his house and his life, returning her to the lonely, hollow existence of tending her few acres of land. In that moment she finally acknowledges just how empty and cold her life was before she met Killian, and her whole being shudders and recoils at the idea of going back to merely surviving without him.

Mentally gathering her courage and preparing for the cruel fracture, she follows him into her room and closes the door softly behind her. Killian stands near the tub, trailing the fingers of one hand in the water that must have gone cold hours ago; the tense line of his jaw forcibly recalls to mind Sophia’s stance in the fleshing barn and fills her with even greater dread. “You did not leave my daughter’s side at all today? Not even to change out of that undoubtedly uncomfortable dress?”

His tone is soft, shocking her with its unexpected difference. She lowers her gaze to the floor, confused and terrified. But she stills the tremor of her hands and keeps her voice even, dispassionate. “As you see, your Highness.”

She bites her lip to halt the flow of pleading words that yearn to spill forth, desperate to retain her dignity and pride. Her abject stance, the carefully neutral words, and the look of despair on her face astounds him as surely as a clout to the head and reveals to him the conclusion she has mistakenly made. “I am an ass and a thrice-damned fool!”

Her shocked expression is priceless, but he only just catches it as he crosses to her and gathers her into a fierce embrace. Initially she remains stiff and aloof but, under the calming, tender caresses and kisses he places upon her, slowly relaxes and wraps her arms tightly about him in return. “I’m so sorry, Emma love! I was frightened out of my wits at the sight of you covered in blood. I thought the worst, despite the evidence to the contrary, and my helplessness transformed into anger. I thought you had been injured whilst I had not been here to protect you. And then I heard Sophia… Sweet Stars, love, what happened?”

Killian pulls away only just enough to help Emma from her layers of clothes, tenderly performing the office of a lady’s maid while the story pours out. Every time she fumbles for a word, he presses a kiss to her skin. Disgusted by the fact that his daughter’s tantrum had kept Emma from caring for her own bodily needs, he sets about caring for her: drawing her close to the fire, which he builds up; setting the bathing towels on the hearth to warm; dipping a cloth into the water, tenderly wiping her skin clean, and then drying her quickly to keep her from feeling the chill; all while biting his tongue and patiently listening. “I had never seen her behave so, well so like a spoiled child. She’s normally so adult in her poise. She has been upset before, of course, but—”

“But never been so cruel or quite so willful? I heard what she said, about you not being a lady. Rest assured that my daughter and I will be having words over _that_.”

“But she is not wrong, Killian. I am not a lady. I have no qualifications or vocation to teach others.” He looks up at her, still kneeling at her feet, and takes both of her hands in his. Reverently, he kisses each knuckle while keeping his eyes locked on hers.

“Darling, your blood could be as green as your eyes and it would not make you a whit more or less of a lady than you are. Something is very wrong with the way we live when marriage lines and pedigrees matter more than what is in the heart, when noble of name is greater than noble of mind. You are not _a_ lady, you are _my_ lady; and while I may be brute beast enough to _yearn_ to show you this instant just how thoroughly mine you are, I do believe that a good dinner and a proper chastisement for my child are necessary. Perhaps I can entice you to my rooms tonight for a warm… _thorough_ bath?”

He presses a kiss to her mound before playfully biting her skin. She blushes at his lascivious glance and his teasing smile, flushes at the wanton need he stokes to life. She swats his shoulder and dances out of reach. “You are incorrigible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a note on the religions in HDB. (:  
> Religion: The peoples of Domitia and Blanc both practice a quasi-polytheistic religion, known officially as “Stellanism”. Stelläe is the name given to the primordial impulse, the collective life-force and consciousness of all living beings in the universe. All humans, plants, and animals are described as anima, or that which has spirit, but rather than be prohibitive of certain lifestyle choices, Stellanism promotes a respect and gratitude for all things possessing anima. Thus, human beings are carnivores, herbivores, or omnivores with an emphasis on awareness that another anima is going toward sustaining one’s life; cattle are slaughtered only after being rendered unconscious so as not to distress the animal or the human. Fruits, vegetables, and herbs are farmed specifically in a sustainable and responsible way, with great care taken to ensure the soil nutrients are replenished.  
> Upon death, the individual anima returns to Stelläe and joins the collective consciousness for an indefinite amount of time until the impulse arises to break from Stelläe. All beings return upon death and from it they will have being upon entering a new life cycle and consciousness. There is an exception to this rule. For Stallanists, the stars represent those souls who have attained a degree of purity and perfection through their life experiences and time spent in Stelläe, or the performance of great and good deeds in a particular lifetime, which qualifies them for exalted or godlike status; these entities, known as Stars, maintain a slightly more separate consciousness from Stelläe and can act in an independent manner to a degree. Because one cannot know who will become a “Star” or when, people do not call upon specific stars or saints, as those in Pastrusa do. If one wishes for divine intervention one prays to the Stars, or alternatively thanks them for their aid. In Blanc, there is veneration of one Star in particular, named Danu, who is considered the chief and oldest among the Stars. Blanceans also refer to her as a goddess, as well as a Star.  
> Stellanism promotes a positive life experience—performing acts of charity, helping others, being kind, etc.—but does not have a fully realized set of doctrines or scriptures. Each person is responsible to Stelläe, but ultimately each person lives their life according to their own conscience and consciousness. People who break the peace, especially violent crimes such as rape and murder are naturally punished according to the degree of severity, but there is only a secular punishment inflicted and referenced. There are no crimes with a religious connection—i.e., you cannot be punished for the legally identified sins in Pastrusan society such as gluttony, sloth, usury, drunkenness, or carnal knowledge of another—within Domitia and Blanc. A person’s moral code is between them and Stelläe, unless another anima is willfully and maliciously harmed; again, any punishment by the authorities of the land will be in kind and degree to the offense.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No extended note for this chapter! But towards the end it become definitively NSFW. ;)

Per Killian’s request, dinner is served immediately to those who make it to the table promptly, giving himself time to clean up and Emma a convincing head-start on him so that their combined tardy arrivals do not appear suspicious to anyone. After giving himself plenty of space to calm his thoughts and to rationally think of a solution—his anger with Sophia needing to cool and allow his logical mind to bend itself to the problem at hand—he arrives several courses in and waves for all to remain seated. He greets everyone normally, including his daughter, who he sees continues to pout; however, he is not quite sure whether she is piqued because of righteous indignation still, or if it is because her plate has been consciously stripped of meats and piled with vegetable, cheese, and nut dishes. Clearly, if she desires to harm absolutely no animals in the production and preparation of her meals, she will have to accept that there are relatively few alternative meat options available to her.

While no one purposely excludes her from the conversation, she does not exert herself at all to supply a focus or a topic for discourse; there will be no dinner table discussion of her day and certainly no rhapsodizing over the things she observed earlier. During the dessert course, he finally brings up the matter of his strained schedule and gives them a brighter subject for discussion. “I know that these last few weeks have been quite stressful for us all, and I want to personally thank each and every one of you and the several members of your staff for their understanding and patience with the strange routine of late. Please pass along my compliments and thanks to all for making this hectic time pass as smoothly as possible. However, you will all be pleased to know that as of today, I have finished my rounds of the lands and will resume a more normal round of activity here at the Hall. The one possible exception to this will be when I receive official word that winter has arrived—I will need to make a two-day visit to the castle and town of Dionya.”

The upper servants and even the footmen smile and break into small, excited conversations with the notable exceptions of Sophia and Emma. But while both of these ladies appear confused at the mention of a longer trip, his daughter breaks into the chatter with pointed query. “Why aren’t you going right away? Where is Dionya and am I coming with you in the carriage? Will Aunt Aurora, Uncle Phillip, and Aunt Mulan be there?”

“As to your first question, Sophia, it is quite simply that I am tired of jolting around the countryside on Triton’s back, and I think he and I both have earned a week’s rest or so. Yes, your aunts and uncle will be there, so if you have any gifts or letters for them you need to get them finished and ready. But because winter could hit us at any moment, I want to go as fast as possible; so that means that I will not be taking you with me this time. Dionya is on our border with the White Kingdom and at the base of the White Mountains, which means that the cold weather could strike there before I heard anything about it. I want you safe and secure here at home. Now…”

Killian stands, cutting off the next spate of questions, and goes directly to stand by his daughter’s chair. He holds out his hand to her gently and helps her rise from her seat, a resigned sigh from her echoing loudly in the quiet room. “Sophia and I will be in the library for a time before I see her off to bed. Mrs. Potts, please convey my gratitude to Chef for another excellent meal and do let him know that I would like to speak with him at his convenience this evening.”

He nods politely to each person at the table before walking out of the dining room with a very subdued Sophia in tow. Much of his being recoils from the very thought of the necessity of chastising her for her actions and words, but the wiser, more paternally astute part of himself know that correction and rebuke cannot be avoided. Life—especially one as steeped in politics as theirs—requires boldly confronting the unsavory and the unpleasant, as well as dealing with people and ideas with which one may not agree; and that a successful person manages to accept these differences with more than a modicum of dignity and grace. He falters in his purpose but for a moment, recalling lessons on moral relativity imparted so forcefully by his own father; he does his best to shake away the haunting echoes of the past, reminding himself that while the harsh tactics were both effective and lasting, he is not bound by the example of his own childhood. He can discipline his daughter while still being compassionate and loving in the delivery.

“You were quite quiet at dinner this evening, my little love. Is everything all right?”

“No, Papa. I had a bad day.” Her serious, thoughtful expression gives him further hope that their conversation can be completed without passionately charged words being exchanged between them. Killian sits in his chair before the fire and lifts Sophia up onto his lap, circling her in a warm but not constricting embrace. Carefully, and with equal trepidation on each side, they look at each other for a long moment as he gathers his words and she braces for a row.

“I want you to know something, my dear. I want you to lock this into your heart and always remember it. Can you do that for me? Nothing you could ever do will make me stop loving you. That does not mean that I will always be happy with every choice you make, nor that I will never be cross with you, but I will always love you and support you. You are _my_ Sophia, and that will never change.” She nods solemnly, eyes glistening with pending tears, before snuggling closer and pressing her head against his chest. Much like with Emma earlier, the story unfolds in fits and starts; as he could have anticipated her tale is awash in colorful emotive impressions—focused one moment on the vibrant life of the animals she fed outside, and the next on the dark sense of horror in watching death occur in real time.

“And then he—then he cut Dancer! There was ever so much blood, and I couldn’t stop it or put it back inside her! And it was just so—so wrong, Papa!” She automatically looks up at Killian for affirmation of her assertion and looks fiercely taken aback when she sees him shaking his head.

“Sophia, I know that you feel very strongly about this, but there is nothing wrong with killing an animal for food. You know from your lessons that the Sages tell us that all life has _anima_ , and that we are not to harm others. What you probably do _not_ know is that not every single Sage, nor every single person, perfectly agrees with what that statement means for our everyday living. Before I go on, let me ask you something. If you were alone in the forest and hungry, and there were no plants that were safe to eat, but there was a rabbit that you know is edible, would you eat him?” Her expression turns inward, clearly troubled, but he waits until he senses that she’s about to inject with a qualifying question.

“Little love, there are many who share your feelings, that animals should not be killed for food; there are others who say that we humans should not even drink a cow’s milk or goat’s milk, because that is only meant to feed their babies. There have even been Sages in ages past who claimed that we should stop having children altogether, because just by existing we have to consume other _anima_ in order to survive, and that **_this_** offends Stelläe… But because the Stars have not come down and said, once and for all, what is right and what is wrong in terms of what we may eat, we each have to make that choice for ourselves. In this household, as in many across the kingdom, we hold to the belief that animals should be eaten, so long as proper thanks are given and so long as the beasts are well cared for beforehand. Now, you might not like to remember this, but did Dancer seem upset before she died?”

She squirms uncomfortably, but, after heaving a resigned sigh, finally answers him truthfully. “No, Papa.”

“Was Master Flesher or either of his apprentices cruel to her in any way? Did they taunt her or hurt her unnecessarily?”

“No.”

“That is because they have been raised and trained to be kind and compassionate when they perform their tasks, to make it so that the animals are not frightened to die; they do not let the animals under their care suffer, and in this way they honor both the _anima_ of the beasts and they honor Stelläe. Does that make sense? Does that help to ease your mind about eating meat and people who choose to eat it?”

“Yes, Papa. But—but I do not want to… I _cannot_ eat animals! I do not _care_ about growing big and strong!”

“And that is an admirable and considerate choice you have made, little love, and I am proud that you have made a decision like this. But you do need to understand that this is a _personal_ choice you are making; you have decided, for yourself alone, that it does not feel morally right to eat the meat of animals. However, you must respect that other people—myself included—do not share your opinion and will continue to eat meat while sharing the same table as you. In many places and at times when families do not have as much as we have been blessed with, people must either eat the meat of animals or they would starve and grow sick. I will speak to Chef shortly about your decision, and we will find a way to accommodate it in the menus. Because while you may not care at the moment, I care very much about the things you eat which will make you strong and healthy. Now, you do realize that you must apologize for your behavior, correct?”

“But I’m—” Killian holds up his hand to forestall _that_ particular line of argumentation.

“Even princesses can be wrong, but your royal status makes it doubly important that you can and will admit to having made a bad judgment or having behaved poorly. Being a princess, and one day a queen, means that you are bound by duty to honor and protect all your subjects. You acted unbecomingly and you threatened _our_ people with very harsh punishments. What if, in your anger, you had sentenced Master Flesher to death? In bygone days, kings have done just that—spoken unwisely and in anger, threatening punishments that they did not truly intend to be administered—and their subjects died, all because of a moment of indiscretion and hasty action. How would you feel, believing as you do that animals should not be harmed, if Francine or Miss Emma were dead in this instant because of your commands and behavior today?”

Sophia turns positively green at the thought and clings even tighter to the stolid strength of her father’s embrace. Killian presses his cheek to the top of her head, thanking the Stars for her loving disposition and kind heart. They spend the next hour awaiting Chef’s arrival, reading stories together and discussing what kinds of food she is willing to eat in place of meats. To his curious delight, fish are not deemed adorable enough to be protected under the overarching label of “animal” and thus marked as acceptable for her plate; likewise eggs are considered allowable as they have not and presumably will not actually develop into a full-grown animal. After sharing one last tale and tucking Sophia into bed, Killian takes a brief detour to the environs of the Orangerie before returning to the library to complete his daily chores and correspondence.

* * *

 

Without consciously making the decision to do so, Emma has spent her evenings these last few weeks in the library, pouring over historical tomes and political treatises in particular; her own desire for greater knowledge about the kingdom and her need to eventually pass on such vital information to her royal pupil would be the most obvious and logical reasons to excuse her presence in the somewhat masculine domain…should  any of the servants and various official personages actually have bothered to note her nightly attendance or comment upon it, that is. Thankfully, not only have they been busy and preoccupied with their own affairs, but the room itself seems to have a strange effect upon her person—no matter who she may or may not pass while entering, she somehow manages to remain so unobtrusive and quiet that every other occupant tends to forget that they never actually observed her leaving. Even the occasional turning of the pages of her chosen book does nothing to disturb her invisibility!

Save for one person’s awareness of her, of course… Although he has never shared it with her, Emma would doubtless be gratified to know that Killian is always cognizant of the precise moment she enters the library, where she sits, can often guess what type of work she is reading, and what time she leaves for the evening. As she inevitably makes for her room before he does, Killian has designated the moment of her departure as a signal of sorts that he should reach a suitable stopping point and cease his labors for the day. Like _Parvus_ follows _Luna Clarus_ , he ever chases but one step behind Emma, hopelessly snared by her and a slave to her every changing whim. He smiles to himself as he watches her silently get up, return the volume to its proper shelf, and gracefully glide away out of the far doors; he knows with every fiber of his soul that, just as surely as he knows his own name, he will happily pursue her forever.

He turns back once more to the report in front of him, a mixture of hope and frustration churning in his mind—Farifax had been quite thorough in scouring the libraries of Thistledown Hall  and, more recently,  at the archives at the Bluffe:

            Dated 28. Octavus (received 29. Octavus)                     

_At present, no precedent to be found regarding an heir whose spouse was deemed unsuitable; word sent to Will Scarlet after giving up search at TH for Bluffe, asking him for missing or damaged volumes, but as yet no response has been received. There is, however, past precedent for the heir contracting a foreign alliance, where the king and council (I must admit, one that was a much less powerful entity than our present body) had not been notified in advance of the nuptials taking place; the couple were fined by the crowns of their respective kingdoms, but the heir of Domitia was not forced to abdicate. Further, the mother’s lands in her country of birth were later resolved by treaty upon their second child; the mother’s fiefs were not permitted to be added to Domitia’s domains, but our kingdom exerting familial influence over the heir to these alienated lands ultimately caused few diplomatic issues, although there was insistence of maternal relations being added to the household to promote a shared sense of culture…_

While not the incontrovertible proof he has been searching for, Killian yet feels a warm glow of vindication. His political gambit just might work out; he may be mad for falling in love with her, but at least he will enjoy every second of his insanity, of his reckless adoration of Emma. On that thought he refuses to wait a moment longer—he closes all his ledgers, puts all reports and correspondence in their appropriate drawers, tidies away his writing materials, and locks his desk. He pockets the key and stretches lazily before nearly sprinting to his rooms, every step of the way imagining the luscious vision he hopes awaits him.

* * *

 

Emma climbs the final steps to her floor barely suppressing a yawn; it has been one of the most emotionally trying and physically exhausting days she can ever remember, and she delightedly recalls that tomorrow will be a Starsday—no need to rise early and no excuse not to sleep in. She opens the door to her room with a relieved sigh…but immediately spies a single candle lit on the small candelabrum set on the side table next to her bed. She walks over quickly, noting that the sheets have been turned down invitingly; but in the flickering light she also sees a token from her lover—a small posy of lavender blossoms and lavender colored roses, inexpertly cut and bound by a green hair ribbon that she has been missing for the last few weeks. A small square of parchment rests underneath the fragrant bundle, the bold ink curling in Killian’s distinctive hand.

_For my bewitching temptress—If you require sleep more than anything else in this moment, then get yourself into bed this instant! However, if you find that you are in need of some other creature comforts, please join me upstairs in my rooms. I promise to delight your senses and fulfill your every desire. My heart yearns for you, love, and my arms feel bereft when they are not filled with you._

She smiles, all thoughts of sleep fleeing her at once, and hastily removes all her clothes, putting everything away in its proper place. As she reaches for the drawer that holds her nightrails, her hand pauses on the knob and she hesitates. Before her courage can desert her, she dons her softest robe and belts it quickly, grabbing her bouquet and putting the note in her pocket before quietly entering the secret passage. Her heart hammers in her chest, for despite the myriad times and ways he has seen her body she cannot contain her blushing nor a tremor of anxious fear of his reaction to her coming to him practically bare already. She knows that he delights in the process of undressing her, the sensual tease; but a suddenly clamoring and strident voice—one that sounds suspiciously similar to the judgmental old village gossips—insists that her actions will appear brazenly wanton as opposed to innocently eager, more calculating than sprung from honest impulse to please.

Emma shakes her head at her folly; the only way to silence such voices and inner doubts is to go to him as she always does—with heart in her hands and with trust in _his_ love to see the truth of her own. When she finally shuts the hidden door behind her and looks about the bedchamber, she does not see Killian anywhere. However, light and the odd soft sound spilling from the partially opened door of his dressing room tells her that he has not yet dismissed Wautier for the evening; so she settles into one of the chairs before the fireplace, sinking deeply into the plush cushioning and drawing her legs up to her chest to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

He finds her in that same pose a few minutes later: eyes closed, a soft smile suffusing her features, the hastily assembled bouquet resting in her hand and held up against her cheek. Killian wishes in vain that he had been blessed with or tutored in the skills of the arts so that he could capture this moment forever; he yearns to immortalize his lover and the rush of emotions she always calls forth from him. He longs to share it all with her in some comprehensible way, to show her how his heart ever aches for her serene beauty. Careful not to disturb her moment of quiet peace, he kneels before her chair and tenderly smoothes his hands over her feet, caresses back to her ankles, and then firmly strokes up her claves. A soft, sighing hum reverberates from her throat as he deliberately massages over tense muscle and supple skin. Her smile deepens from calm contentedness into smug, sensual satisfaction before she finally opens her eyes; her gaze glimmers with emerald fire, a hot blaze of lust piercing through soul and flesh, summoning forth his most primal self.

“Who would have thought that a prince would know how to serve as a masseur to a lowly farmer?” Emma languidly shifts one of her legs, sinuously caressing down Killian’s side before pointedly tracing the long lines of his thigh, up and down and back up again. He moves his own hands in response, massaging up past her knees and spreading her legs further apart as his fingers inch closer and closer to her core.

“Ah, but you forget that the life of a prince is one devoted to service—to ensuring the welfare of his every subject, to making certain that their every need is met…to their utmost satisfaction.” He groans and loses his train of thought when she carefully traces the outline of his rigid cock with her toes, rhythmically stroking him in an uncanny simulation of her fingers. He hisses as the familiar friction ripples across his aching flesh and sets fire to his skin.

“Temptress.” His eyes fall half-shut as he savors her every move, yet he still remains lost in her eyes.

“Scoundrel.”

“Siren.”

She bends forward and taps him on the nose with her little bouquet. “Only to you. Thank you for the flowers. When did you steal my ribbon?”

He leans into her and traps her hand in one of his, brushing gentle kisses across her knuckles and down her wrist. “That day you spent working in the library with me and Fairfax; I wanted to keep something of yours with me always, especially while gallivanting across my lands.”

Her eyes widen in mock innocence, playful shock. “And now you no longer need possess a constant reminder of me? I do believe I am offended, sir!”

He presses closer still, nose delicately brushing along her exposed collarbone and the hollow of her throat, breathing her in and teasing her flesh. “Now that I need not rush to the stables each morning, I can see the real thing whenever my heart desires. What is a mere token of you when I can leave my study or my labors at any moment and seek you out? Of course, I may need to steal something before travelling to Dionya…the ribbon, unfortunately, has spent so much time in my pocket that it no longer smells of your hair.”

“Such a sentimental thief!”

“Only for you, my love. Now, would you like to see what other delights are on offer this evening, or shall I ravish you right here, right now?”

“Was there truly something else you had in mind?” She punctuates her tease with a firmer stroke against his straining cock.

“Oh, yes, you vixen. I have every intention of showing you just how devoted a public servant I can be. But unless you cease your torments, I might give in to my selfish impulses.” He pulls away with a mischievous grin of his own and stands, holding his hands out for hers. She smiles up at him coyly through her lashes, daintily accepting his assistance and letting him lead her where he will. Though he cannot possibly see it, she looks at him incredulously as he walks them into his dressing room. Emma looks around curiously, eager to glean more information about her lover in any way she can. But Killian appears to be oblivious to her hungry scrutiny, leading her straight through the room and toward a door at the opposite end.

“I hope you are prepared to be dazzled, Emma love.” She tears her gaze away from the long line of jackets, trousers, and waistcoats hung in neat, evenly spaced rows and the copious number of drawers that must hold socks, shoes, shirts, and undergarments. Killian laughs at her slightly overwhelmed expression.

“And all this…is nothing. Compared to my brother and the peacocks at court, I am but a raven. You should see Liam’s dressing room someday—although, I _will_ become ragingly jealous should you ever be intimately acquainted with another man’s boudoir and toilette.” She catches a fleeting glimmer in his eyes of an emotion she cannot name, but she instinctively knows that it belies his teasing tone and playful words. Could it be genuine jealousy? Actual _fear_ of her becoming enamored of another? Emma dismisses the ridiculous notion and shakes her head laughing.

“Give me the fine feathered, sober raven any day, Killian! A peacock is but a vain and empty-headed bird that must smugly strut about and constantly preen in order to announce his supposed superiority to one and all. The raven is above such shallow aggrandizement and is a better being for it. But as I cannot enjoy _your_ clothes—except as to observing how delicious you look in them and in the delectable removing of them from your body—I take it you have somewhat else to show me?”

He cups her cheeks between his palms and kisses her breathless, releasing her so suddenly that she sways forward precariously before righting herself; she blushes in embarrassment, keenly _un_ aware of how greatly her lover appreciates her enthusiasm and that he does all in his power to encourage her to express her desires as candidly and as frequently as she wishes.”You are indeed correct, my love.”

With a flourish he opens the door and bows dramatically to usher her in. She cannot contain her gasp of pleased awe. The spacious chamber positively glows with warm light and more than a touch of humid steam curls in the air. In the center lies a sunken pool filling with hot water that streams from a bright copper tap set into one of the corners; the bottom is tiled in blues and greens, and white, creating several oceanic waves that seem to actually move. The taps, one each on two of the corners, are connected via pipes to large copper cauldrons set into carved recesses in the walls. The floor surrounding the tub is a cream colored marble, veined with glints of green and copper, and elegantly scattered blue carpets. A set of dark wooden shelves sits near the tub itself, helpfully stocked with linens, soaps, and oils.

Emma gawks at the sheer luxuriousness, the positive decadence of an entire _room_ devoted solely to bathing. He quickly moves to the flowing tap and turns a knob, which halts the swift fall of water before gesturing about the room expressively with his hands. “I designed all this myself, so I hope you don’t object to my choices in décor. This is another of my rooms where you are always welcome, Emma love. We’ll have to be cautious in order to keep Wautier in the dark, but I never want you to have to endure a cold bath again—unless that’s your desire. Master Smith improved on my initial designs and we are working on making the hot cauldron more efficient in terms of retaining heat, but…”

“Killian…It’s magnificent! I could not possibly—” He spins her in his arms so that she faces him, gently tilting up her chin so he can look into her eyes and playfully tapping her nose. Emma slides her hands up his chest and settles them behind his neck, thumbs caressing the skin below his ears and fingers ruffling the ends of his hair.

“None of that now, darling. We know how to accomplish it and what changes will be necessary to the structure of the house, so I plan on building several of these chambers throughout Thistledown, making them available to everyone. Hauling water up and then down the stairs again? Such a burdensome chore for the maids. The tub drains through the existing waste system, so that will get flushed out more regularly once there are more of these in place. Granted, this one is a bit bigger than the ones I have designed for the other parts of the house—”

“Do you know that you tend to babble when you are nervous? It is quite adorable really.”

His bashful expression shifts into a dour and forbidding snarl. “I am _not_ adorable.”

“I beg to differ, dear heart, but you are. And as my _personal_ public servant for this evening, I absolutely insist that you continue to be so.” His scowl instantly transforms into a piercing, intent focus upon her, such that the air between them seems to have suddenly caught fire. His eyes brim with a heavy emotion, with an aching earnest desire to please her in every way.

“Does that make you my Queen, Emma? Are you the greatest among the Stars, the divine recipient of all my prayers and hopes? The bright and tender light that burns through the night, giving all lost souls hope in the darkness? Tell me how to worship you my Queen, my Star, my light…” She gasps when he kneels before her, pressing his face into her stomach and nuzzling her through the fabric of her robe; his hands sink into her back, holding himself tightly against her. Her breath deserts her as she gently places her hands on his head, fingers carding through his hair. He lifts his face to her once more and she staggers under the weight of the pure faith, the radiant yearning she sees in his eyes—as if she were truly the lodestone, the guiding Star he has searched for all his life. She does not answer him in words—for she can find none—but rather unfurls the bow tied at her waist and shrugs the concealing fabric from her shoulders, standing unashamedly naked before him.  He falls back onto his haunches, the awe-inspired hunger in his eyes growing as he unhurriedly takes in her natural glories, her artless beauty.

“You are perfection itself my Queen, my Star.” He bows forward and grasps her once again, but this time she wraps her arms around his head, forcibly holding him to her.

“Only to you, sweet prince; only for you, my Killian.” Her words seem to enact a spell and set him free to explore and worship her. He buries his face in her quim, nose nuzzling her mound as his tongue flicks out to tempt and entice her clit. She cries out as he tosses one of her legs over his shoulder while banding her waist with a steely arm, opening her fully to his questing devotions. Vaguely, over the pounding of blood in her veins and her panting whimpers of pleasure, she can hear and feel him speaking words of praise and faithful adoration as he devours her cunt.

Now they cling to each other equally—he her anchor in this raging storm of passion, she the winds and the rains that drown him in this tempest of bliss. She can feel his tongue everywhere—swirling and licking furiously around her clit, parting and laving the petals of her sex, relentlessly diving deep into her and seeking her honeyed arousal, massaging and exploring nerves and places that she never knew existed for the sake of titillation. Not once does he let her rest, never once ceases searching for new ways to uncover and unlock her ecstasy. He sucks her clit into his mouth, plunges his tongue deep, and grazes his teeth over the hypersensitive pearl of flesh; she shatters into him, her liquid pleasure flowing out onto his eager, thirsty tongue.

Emma feels like she is floating when he catches her, and then suddenly she is—carefully and gently surrender to the water’s warm embrace for a few moments before Killian joins her. He starts with her hair, lathering the wet curls and tenderly scratching her scalp. He carefully cups his palms to rinse the suds from her, closing her eyes and wicking the soapy trails from her face with infinite care before slowly winding his way down her body. He follows each moist caress with a delicate kiss, with a whispered prayer of gratitude for the gift of her being. She finally comes fully back into her body as he pulls her close against his chest, holding her and simply allowing her to soak and relax. She fleetingly wonders what other delights they can manage together in this room before she settles into a light, blissful doze.

She wakes when he dries her hair and wraps her body in several linens before carrying her to a nest of pillows and furs in front of the fireplace in his bedroom. Killian focuses on every inch of her skin, making certain that not a jot becomes chilled from being wet and exposed to the cool air. Painstakingly, he stokes up the fire and adds more logs before massaging oil into her flesh. When he is nearly finished with her legs, he catches the dark, hungry glitter of her eyes. Before he can say or do aught else, Emma locks her ankles together behind his back and draws him down to her body. With a seductive grin, she practically purrs as she reaches down and squeezes his cock; he has been wanting and patient for far too long, and so has she. Using the very same oil he has been meticulously massaging into her, she slicks her palms up and down his shaft, one thumb tracing over the tip.

Killian throws his head back, hissing in pleasure at her exquisite touch and then releasing a guttural moan when she guides him to her arousal-soaked quim. He thrusts forward blindly, burying nearly every inch of his burning, rigid cock into her tight, wet sheath. The sound she makes as he hits the very end of her does not even sound human, rather something feral like a feline shriek in a night-black, humid jungle. He growls, desperate to hear that sound again, but unaware as to how to ask for it; he pulls back until his engorged length is no longer buried in her, the head resting on her pink lips and her deep red pearl. He can feel her cunt quivering, clutching at the air in its desperation for him to return. He thrusts back in, a primitive howl ringing through his mind as she makes that erotic animal sound once more, followed by his name breathed out on a desperate moan.

He grasps her ankles and places them firmly on his shoulders, guiding one of her hands to the place where they are joined; he sets her thumb on her clit and lightning shoots down his spine as her walls clench furiously around him. He wraps her other hand firmly around the base of his cock, covering the portion of him that cannot enter her completely. He bows down and sucks one of her hardened nipples into his mouth before biting harshly and worrying the responsive flesh. Emma hisses at him, but throws her head back wantonly nonetheless. “Hold onto me, love.”

He draws back and slams home again, beginning a ruthless, pummeling assault that leaves them panting in seconds and fills the room with the wet slap of their bodies against each other. Emma grunts and moans continuously, as his thrusts force the very breath from her lungs. Stars, she feels like a molten, silken heaven as he pounds into her! An orgasm hits her suddenly, but with his constant strikes to the very end of her and her thumb on her clit, the waves crash over her inexorably and persistently. Her walls constrict and ripple in agonizingly perfect undulations and her juices flow forth in a stream that makes his relentless passage even easier. He bites down on her calf and in his fervor his hold on her hip slips. A high keening, barely audible sound passes the wide ‘o’ of her lips.

Killian pulls out completely and flips her onto her stomach, pressing her head down into the pillows and lifting her hips up. Her quim visibly quivers and more of her arousal gushes forth. He collects the juices from her pussy and his cock, thrusting back into her from behind and snapping his hips into hers. Both hands slick with her moisture, he palms one of her breasts, kneading the flesh and plucking her nipple mercilessly. Emma moans beautifully, his name slipping out every other breath. He rides her slowly, putting more power than speed behind each drag of his cock along her walls. When he senses that she’s with him again, he smears his other hand all over her arse, letting her feel just how aroused, just how thoroughly pleasured her body has been.

Gently and thoroughly, he massages the ring of muscle with his thumb before carefully pressing in. Emma’s hips snap back into his, forcing him deeper in both holes. “Yeeessss! Killian, yes!”

He picks up his pace, alternating the thrust of his cock and the penetration of his thumb. Then he slips two of his fingers in its stead, stretching and testing her; he feels one of her hands brush against the base of his cock, her own fingers seeking out her clit but teasing him simultaneously. “Almost there, love. Do you have another in you?”

Emma answers with another forceful squeeze of her inner walls and a lifting of her hips and ass higher. Killian takes her meaning and picks up his pace to the same reckless speed that had sent her flying so swiftly earlier. His fingers slip deeper, his strokes in both of her passages becoming sloppy and erratic. He feels her ass clench hard around his fingers and suddenly it is as if an explosion occurs in his brain. He finally surrenders to the pull of her cunt, to the drag of her muscles as she violently shatters around him one more time. He can hear her hoarse scream of ecstasy and his own shout of her name, but he can only vaguely see tendrils, random flames of light dancing across his eyes. He finally closes them and collapses on top of Emma, his sweat-slicked skin deliciously sliding across her back.

They pant in the same, harsh staccato as they float back to Arva, fall back into their bodies from the heaven of where they were joined. He feels Emma trembling beneath him and hurriedly moves off of her, pulling her on top of him intending to soothe and comfort her. But instead of shock or fear, her face shines with rapture and her lips are set in a maniacal grin; she laughs hysterically. “If this is what happens when we only have time for a few brief interludes, I should send you away to spend your days alone more often!”

For the very first time, Killian laughs with his bedmate.

* * *

 

The next day, the last day of Octavus, Killian and Master Noris introduce Sophia and Emma to the mounts selected for them—Papillion and Sicara, respectively—and begin basic instructions in caring for a horse and its equipment. Three days later, Will Scarlet’s letter arrives, announcing the imminent onset of winter and Killian determines to set out for Dionya on the 5th of Nona. His and Emma’s bout of lovemaking the night before his departure is more sedate and anxious than any ever before experienced, more frantic and bittersweet as it will mark the first time over the course of their relationship that they will be truly separated from each other.


	23. Chapter 23

At the breakfast table right before Killian revealed his plans for their joint lessons in horseback riding, a very subdued and contrite Sophia apologized to Emma. In the days that follow, her pupil keeps herself slightly aloof as if uncertain of her own continued affections for her governess, or perhaps—a rather more disturbing and distressing thought—fearing that her tantrum has in some way damaged Emma’s care for and devotion to her. Only later does it occur to Emma to wonder what she could have done to bridge the sudden fissure between them were it not for Killian’s hasty departure to Dionya; but thankfully on the morning of the fifth, mere hours after they had wished him farewell and Starspeed, Sophia breaks the careful, unfailingly polite truce and brings about a rapprochement.

The air inside the Orangerie feels slightly humid, but blessedly warm; earlier they had been out in the medicinal garden preparing and digging up some of the herbs for transplant under Master Gardener’s watchful eye, exposed to the crisp autumnal air and the watery sunshine. Now, the two women are painstakingly replanting in the prepared indoor beds while Sophia draws and labels the various parts of several potted blossoms arranged on the table before her. Francine reclines on a nearby chaise dozing intermittently, interrupting the relative quiet and her own sleep with the odd soft snore. Master Gardener asks Emma a question regarding the wild berry patch they had visited late last month.

“If you haven’t had a chance to bank it with leaves, I can always ask one of my workers to see to it. Can’t have _you_ getting lost in a storm, now can we?”

“You want to cover the berry patch with _leaves_?! That sounds silly.”

Emma smiles as she looks over at her pupil, who remains absorbed in her drawing so that she does not look up from her sketch, tongue just poking out between her lips at one corner of her mouth. “It is actually quite smart, Sophia, and it is very important to those bushes that we do help them. Because winter will soon arrive, the leaves might not all fall before the first freeze as they normally would. In order to survive through the ice and snow, those bushes absolutely need that cover of leaves. First, because it will keep a layer between them and the cold, rather like your heavy coat will for you; it will keep the snow from all but the outer edges of the plant, so the roots will not freeze and die. And second, the leaves will get wet and start to rot, providing the plants with their first bit of food come springtime.”

Sophia opens and closes her mouth to reply several times before finally setting her mouth in a curious frown. “But why do **_you_** care about some berry bushes?”

Emma frowns herself, quietly asking Master Gardener to give them a moment. She fiddles with her gardening gloves for a bit before removing them and setting them aside—she frankly feels ridiculous wearing them, far more used to the soil shifting against her skin, but Master Gardener had insisted. She kneels down by Sophia’s chair and takes the girl’s hands in hers.“Are you asking because you are genuinely curious, or because you are still upset with me?”

Sophia shrugs, looking away with a mixture of confusion and guilt on her face. “You want to protect _berries_ , but you did **_not_** protect _Dancer_.”

“Sweetling… It was not that I did not want to save Dancer’s life; she had already lived a good life and it was her time to go. And just as important, her sacrifice means that other lives are now longer and better as a result of her death. I care about the berry patch because it is in my power to help that patch grow and survive, but something still has to die in order to make that happen. Those leaves used to be alive and filled with _anima_ , but because of the change in the season, because the tree is getting ready to hibernate, those leaves will die. I cannot stop them from dying, but I can give their death meaning by giving them to feed the berry patch.

“The same is true with Dancer’s death; she would have died any way, sooner or later. But me, your Papa, all the servants… So many people have been able to eat and continue to live through this last week because of her sacrifice. Nothing—no part of Dancer’s body was wasted or just left to rot in a field somewhere, so the greatest number of people who could in any way benefit from her death have done so. And in her sacrifice, several other cows who might have been killed just as easily were spared to live for a little while longer…”

Emma swallows down her emotions, doing her best to help this precious girl make sense of the harsh realities of life. “One day, I will die. And Francine will die. And Fairfax and Mrs. Potts and your Papa… Just as we have no say in when we are born, we cannot say when the Stars will call us back to them. We are constantly leaving and returning to Stelläe. But while we are here, we need to be good stewards and careful guardians of Arva and everything in it. And that sometimes means helping a berry patch survive through the winter, or tearing up a choking weed so that a medicinal plant can grow. And sometimes that means deciding when an animal’s death needs to happen.

“‘Balance and harmony with all _anima_ ,’ does not mean that we need to constantly be in a state of joy and happiness; because if we never experienced sorrow and pain, then we would never truly understand or appreciate what it means to be happy or to feel well. If I had not lost my parents and lived alone for so long, I would not feel so blessed and thankful every day to have met you and to have come to love you. I know that you miss your mother very much, but because of that loss you have a very special relationship with your Papa. Take today for instance: were you sad to see Papa go, and do you miss him right now?”

“ _Abso- **lute** -ly_! He will not be able to sit with me and tell me _stories_ tonight! And that is the _best_ part of the day!”

“That is true, although I am sure that Francine and I can still tell you bedtime stories, there’s just something extra wonderful about your Papa reading to you before bed isn’t there? But I’ll tell you a secret: you will miss him tonight and tomorrow night, but then, once he returns, it will make your story times feel extra special to you!”

“It _will_?!”

“Of course, darling. Because you will have spent two nights without him tucking you in, when he comes back and reads you your favorites and snuggles you down just right, it will feel so much better than any other bedtime you’ve ever had. Just like we have been lately over our disagreement about eating animals. I know that your heart is in the right place, even though we had our fight; I need you to know that you are so, so very special to me. And that did not change when we were upset, and that will not change ever. Now, do you think that we can start over? Go back to hugs every morning? Because I certainly miss those Sophia-hugs.”

Sophia smiles widely before flinging herself into Emma’s arms. Emma embraces her wholeheartedly, enjoying the return to open affection and feeling a deep tug through her being. Holding the sturdily fragile body of the child in her arms causes an intimate wrench in her soul—the achingly poignant need, the heretofore impossible dream of motherhood sinks completely into Emma’s heart and refuses to be ousted. While a tantalizing glimpse of tiny heads, dark and light, and eyes of differing shades of blue and green winks into existence like a will-o-the-wisp, she clings to the truth that all such phantoms could never come to being and yet she would still know those hopes realized in the little girl before her.

Desperate to reestablish her emotional equilibrium, Emma pulls away with a kiss to her head and lifts Sophia back into her chair, smiling at her pupil’s aggrieved groan. “Now, which part of _this_ plant is the stamen?”

* * *

 

The journey to Dionya passes uneventfully, broken only by the halts at the few villages along the road in the timber lands. Killian’s proclamation had been sent to Sir Mulan well before the end of Octavus, ensuring that the scattered, isolated communities were warned early and urged to increase their quotas for logging; likewise, their concerns and queries had been forwarded to him as soon as they cropped up, so discussing those questions and anxieties specific to their area takes very little time at the present. Rather, their stops focus more on Killian showing his personal investment in their well-being than on easing fears—the men and women who make their living beneath forest canopy and within the shadows of the glowering White Mountains are a hardy folk who do not scare easily. He makes a point of thank each and every worker he meets in the lumber mills and in the towering tree fields, cognizant that it has been their dedication and intensive labor over the last few weeks that has resulted in an actual, significant number of lives preserved from the harsh cold of the winter storms more than any other group of artisans; without the treated lumber they provided, many of the repairs necessary at the manufactories would have been left undone.

Dionya itself rests on a small plateau that commands the view for miles around, a tiny foothill compared to the dizzying heights and unforgiving crags of the southernmost arm of the White Mountains. Thanks in part to the lack of halts, Killian and his guards ride into the outer bailey just two hours after midday. Having had the leisure to watch his group’s approach well in advance of their arrival, it does not surprise him that Sir Mulan waits for him in the courtyard of the castle with what appears to be every spare member of the garrison standing at parade attention for his inspection. As always, the black linen of her dress uniform is crisply starched and her light armor polished to a high sheen—the consummate, perfect warrior and a finely honed weapon.

“Hail, Prince of the House of Sonoian! Hail, our liege lord of the Blood Royal! Hail, defender of the right cause and behold the arms who fight for justice!” The unified voice of every soldier, including those of the watch set on the walls, proclaiming the formal Knight’s declaration of fealty with conviction and trust ringing in every syllable strikes Killian to his very core with a dart of pride in his position—and nearly unmans him with the need to lay his doubts and inadequacies before these most loyal of men, to proclaim his own unshakeable belief in his unworthiness to lead such noble soldiers or receive their homage. But undeserving or not, he is still the king’s representative, still the physical embodiment of law and order, and must play that part to perfection. However, the awe inspired in him by their devotion to his family and their duty performed for the kingdom **demands** that he acknowledge and honor their sacrifices and vocation; he follows the impulse of the moment after they had bowed to him _en mass_ and drops to one knee before them all.

“Hail to thee, O Knights and soldiers of Domitia! To the arms who uphold the king’s peace! Hail to the hands that protect the defenseless and wield justice for the common man! Hail to you all, with the thanks and gratitude of the king himself and the prince you serve.” He bows his head, the stunned silence only broken by the restless shifting of the horses.

“Well, my lord, I did warn them that they couldn’t mistake you, as you tend to make a memorable entrance.” Killian raises his head to see his seneschal holding out a gauntleted hand to help him up, an amused smirk on her seemingly ageless face. He clasps his hand about her right forearm, accepting her help in standing and returning her greeting with a firm squeeze.

“On behalf of the garrison of Dionya, I humbly accept your praise; we seek but to do our duty, but the recognition afforded us by our lord’s gratitude will warm our hearts and inspire great deeds of arms for months to come. Which is fortuitous, for we‘ll have need of such warmth in our bellies and fires in our souls for the bitter cold months to come!” The soldiers laugh heartily at her pronouncement, the rigid formality and gravity of the moment broken. Killian smiles wolfishly before giving Sir Mulan’s arm another rough shake.

“Indeed, but perhaps we can give them better light and fire with a demonstration? What say you, my old tutor? I have had no opponent my equal in months, save only a solid post in my stable yard against which I tread the circles. Care to put me through my paces and provide your command with a show of your best?” A hearty roar of approval meets his words, heated discussions of the odds springing up throughout the courtyard and shouts of encouragement ringing loudly. Sir Mulan smiles ruefully at him before raising her hand, instantaneously commanding absolute silence.

“Does your pride require a lowering, your Highness? ‘A true warrior always fights as if his life were in mortal peril, for to do otherwise is to pull back from the necessary killing blow when his enemy engages him in combat.’ Do you not remember this maxim from the days of your youth as my student?” Catcalls and taunting follow her question, as more of the assembled soldiers join the chorus clamoring for the match to take place.

“Indeed. But ‘to fight with no honor or respect for the two lives imperiled in a duel is to forget that each life belongs to the Stars regardless and that we may all be counted among Their number someday’.” Sir Mulan bows in acknowledgment and to the inevitable, unclasping her cloak from the solid band of steel encasing her throat, a personal modification to the standard armor to protect her from a killing strike. She hands the flowing garment to her second in command and silently draws her sword, while Killian dispenses with his coat and pulls his scabbard from its position on Triton’s saddle. A little groom runs quickly to take the horse’s reins and lead him away to his well-earned stall and rest.

Killian draws his own sword and sweeps into the warm-up forms; despite working the circles every day, he was hardly joking about being out of practice—one of the many changes to his courtly routine that had happened when Milah’s death left him as Sophia’s only parent. Fatherhood itself had not been enough to make him give up the occasionally fatal sport, especially since they had still lived in the capital where the best physicians were to be found at a moment’s notice. But finding himself solely responsible for his daughter’s well-being and care had sobered him like nothing else had, and risking injury daily against a Master Swordsman swiftly paled and lost its place as his favorite activity; but for just an instant, he mourns that loss. Banishing the thought from his mind, he finally bows to Sir Mulan to indicate his readiness, his body thrumming and vibrating with coiled, tightly-leashed energy just waiting to explode into action. He glories in that instant—that moment of suspended tension just before his opponent strikes, and all the memorized moves and motions immediately rush into his being like friends long parted.

And then he is far too busy blocking and retreating, defending his weaker left side against his mentor’s attacks—of course she would not forget such a vital advantage over the intervening years since their last bout, nor would she give him any benefit by holding back her blows. Sir Mulan’s philosophy, ruthlessly pounded into his brain and bruised into muscle and skin all those years ago, leaps to the front of his thought once more—‘never forgive or coddle a weakness, for you can bet your life that your enemies will not do so’. Fending off her blows takes up what little concentration is not wasted on admiring her form and poise; despite being admittedly twenty years his elder, her body remains as honed and responsive to her commands as finest Havenian steel. She is still very much his superior in the wielding of the blade, and part of him sincerely doubts she will even allow a thing like death to dull her edge. Knowing that she will soon tire of his refusal or inability to attack, Killian finally lunges to his left and tries to strike under her guard, quickly bringing his sword up underneath hers.

Angling so harshly across his body leaves his right side and back unprotected, the fact of which she quickly moves to take advantage. He gets his sword up to block by the skin of his teeth, the blades sparking against each other in a furious shriek. He carefully tunes out the delighted howls and whistles of the soldiers, the calling of odds and the clink of coins that signal their bets being made on the match. He feels a momentary pang for anyone who lays a bet on him out of loyalty or patriotic fervor because he knows that the best he can hope to manage is a draw—and anyone who has seen Sir Mulan fight knows the odds of that are practically nonexistent. However, as time ticks forward with neither side giving quarter, his brain finally catches the potential weakness that his eyes have been tracking for a while now—a minute shifting to the left foot from the right. She favors one of her knees.

He could make a direct strike at that leg, but he chooses to be patient and take the time to prove his theory first, making a low feint on her guard. He catches sight of it, through the ripple of skin and muscle beneath the thin layer of the fabric of her trousers stretched taut—a tremor; so her thigh muscles or upper tendons must be the culprit. He keeps feinting to the right, allowing her to rely more heavily on her left leg and the ebb and flow of their deadly dance continues. When he finally makes his move, forcing her to use the muscles she is favoring and pivot on them, he glimpses the flash of recognition in her eyes just before he is behind her, sword tracing a cut in the air that would have sliced the back of her thigh straight from knee to buttock had it connected. She goes down to one knee, defeated at last, and he taps her right shoulder to announce the end of the match.

Her second, Aurora, quickly goes to her side and leans down to help Mulan up while many in the crowd groan about their losses and the few crow in triumph. Killian moves to her other side, firmly gripping her elbow as she weakly stands. She waves off the handful of concerned expressions as the three of them rapidly make their way into the castle and away from prying eyes and ears. “Why did you not tell me that you had been injured? We could have deferred tomorrow.”

Unexpectedly, it is Phillip, the castle steward and third partner who responds, having appeared out of thin air at his side. “Because ‘an enemy would not broadcast his weakness’, your Highness.”

He nudges his prince out of the way and assumes his accustomed place at Mulan’s side. Clearly, he had not approved of their exhibition, planned or not, and blames Killian for his part and his partner for her stubborn pride.

“You know she is right, Phillip. She just forgot that _other_ maxim she drills into the thick heads of her students—‘know your limits, and know when a battle is lost’. You are not immortal, dear heart. None of us are.” The four of them continue in silence, passing by the great hall entirely and ascending to the Marshal’s solar. That Mulan holds her tongue and corrects neither of her partners indicates that she has finally learned the wisdom of when to pick her battles, or more likely that rather she is carefully considering her rebuttal of what she will no doubt deem their “fussing”.

Having watched the trio from a slight distance for years as a supportive, concerned friend—as close as a prince of the blood can come to friendship at any rate—Killian had vicariously experienced the struggles that accompanied being one of the rare, true triumvirates. When their relationship had become publicly known, many people at court had shunned them or pulled their children and sponsorships from Mulan’s military academy; others had been unconscionably rude and hyper-inquisitive regarding the details of their private life. He had never once envied them the hardships they faced for loving each other so selflessly, but he most certainly had moments where he was jealous of that very love—he envied that pure, open-hearted devotion and care. Their hearts—all three of them—possessed such a large capacity for love, an all-consuming, all-encompassing love; now that he has Emma in his world, he understands them and sympathizes with them in a way that he never could before. The _cannot_ **_not_** love each other.

“By the Stars, you would think I were on my death bed the way these two carry on so! I am not yet so old and infirm that I cannot answer a friendly challenge; although, it took you far too long to recognize and capitalize on my weakness, student mine. A true warrior would have seen it before I even bowed!”

“Well, you can assign me some of the more complex circles as punishment when we are finished talking. However, I know that Aurora would prefer her own crack at me in recompense and Phillip a piece of my aging hide.”The furious blushing of her partners’ faces confirms the bent of their thoughts—neither of them quite as at ease as his mentor with his irreverence for his station—and causes Mulan to collapse in her chair in a rare fit of laughter.

“Break out our best wine, my dears! My witty, charming friend has returned from his mourning, which can only mean that he has finally been lighted by love’s rays—and **that** calls for celebration!”

Killian’s jaw drops, confirming her statement emphatically rather than serving to deny it and causing Phillip to join in Mulan’s mirth. Aurora places a gentle, sympathetic hand on his shoulder and when he looks up at her he sees a kindly, knowing smile. “We could all tell immediately, your Highness, we three who know you well. There is something in the air around you which has changed—a kind of peace and an aura of lightness about you that we have not seen in a long time. Not since before…”

She visibly bites her tongue to keep from continuing her thought and squeezes his shoulder before stepping away to the door to order a servant be sent up with their meat and drink. Their combined perceptiveness has always been uncanny, but all Killian truly feels after the initial shock is relief; Mulan has known him the longest, but together these three have been his closest friends and know every last one of his secrets. By them intuiting the truth, his burdens  and worries seem somewhat lighter, and his tension quickly drains away as Mulan and Phillip slowly regain their accustomed composure. “I suppose being the source of someone’s amusement may simply be my lot in life, for Sophia laughs at me at least once a day. Truly, it has been too long my friends. However, you do know that if you had accepted my original post for you at the Bluffe, you would all be much closer and would already know all.”

Aurora waves her hand dismissively as her partners shake their heads. “His Majesty would never allow it, as relations with our self-righteous southern neighbor are strained enough as it is. They would go into fits or ecstasies of moral outrage if we camped our “godless” selves on their border; our relationship is hardly accepted here at home, let alone in a country who officially denounces our kingdom’s faith as “heretical, heterodox, and dangerous.” Now, before we get into the un-pleasantries of your visit, why not share with us about your lady love? We have heard nothing about your budding romance in the court dispatches.”

Given how little he truly knows about the latest from court, the letter from Will being vague at best and nary a word from his brother’s progress in quite some time, Killian launches instead into the tale of how he met Emma, of his certainty that she is the true heir of the Duchy of Malfi, of the evolution of their connection from lust and obsession to one of surprising yet genuine love, and finally of the proposal he has sent to the Dowager Duchess following her own reply. The news of his decision causes a round of glances to shuttle swiftly amongst the trio, concern coming off all three in nearly palpable waves. Usually the quiet one, Phillip acts as their spokesperson in voicing their apprehensions.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, Killian, but why have you not shared your suspicions with her? Or, perhaps more importantly, of the fact that you have asked for her hand in marriage from someone she has never even met and likely does not know exists? Or how do you know that she will even have you? For she sounds as if she values her independence a great deal. Aside from all these concerns, it seems to me that she has a right to know who she is and to make her own decisions accordingly. More than one man will be after her lands once her location and status become known—granted, none who are likely to become king at all, let alone soon, so you trump all comers there. But surely that very fact will cause trouble with the White Kingdom over sovereignty of the duchy… Whether she knows it or not, you have trapped her quite neatly, my friend; oh, you had the best of intentions and as you love her you will treat her well, but when it comes down to it, you are giving her no more choice in the matter than the old lords who would countenance kidnapping and raping an heiress in order to force her to wed.”

Killian swallows nervously, unsure what his friends will say about his reasoning—especially since this will be the first time he has ever attempted to articulate his motivations and present them logically to an audience. Even though they are his friends and loyal advisors, he knows he can count on them to at least attempt objectivity; yet he fears that under their scrutiny, his sound reason will crumble into irrational excuses and base impulses. “I wish you all could meet her, and then perhaps some of this might make more sense. Maybe observe her with me and Sophia… She speaks little of herself and her past, but I gather that after her father passed her mother was never quite the same; so, since she was 12 years old, Emma has had to care for her farm and for herself, right down to the most back-breaking chores and defending her lands. She kept her mother together for a few years, but ultimately she died from grief and Emma became truly alone.

“She has responsibility for Sophia, yes, but this is the first time in her life where she has not had to worry. When we first met, she was unbowed and proud, but in spite of my fierce desire for her, a part of me could see that something was missing—she had no joy, no light. I will not say that I noticed it for what it was at the time, but now… Now that she has experienced a life beyond her farm, a life where her needs are met and her wants are not denied constantly, she glows so radiantly. But the moment she discovers her mother’s legacy, the instant I ask her to be my queen, she will have burdens and weighty responsibilities once more. She deserves to be free of care, and I want to make that freedom last as long as possible before it is stripped from her entirely. And I will ask her to marry me, but relations with the White Kingdom will be eased by the observing of the proprieties and the existence of a formal proposal to her last living relation and the matriarch of her family.”

Aurora nods for him to continue as she refills his goblet of wine. “But there is more, is there not?”

“Much more, as there always is in a situation as complicated as this… She knows little about Milah, almost nothing save the obvious that she is dead.” Mulan swears with her typical creativity, implying the Stars of his nativity had previous existences as sluttish village idiots, amongst other things; Phillip draws his back straight up against his chair and shifts his seat away, while Aurora draws a huge breath as if to launch into a thorough scolding. Killian holds up his hand for silence and patience.

“The lecture on honesty and open communication will save until later, if you please. She knows that I loved Milah deeply, but that as a gently-reared lady, she did not enjoy our marital bed—which is the truth!... What Emma and I share…it is elemental; it is passion _and_ affection, it is lust _and_ love. And yet while this is the ideal we are raised to strive for by our tales and poetry, noblewomen are on the whole still taught the absurd notion that a nuptial bed is for the begetting of heirs and that marriages are to be devoid of the stronger emotions. For a short time after I discovered the possibility that my suspicions were correct, I tried to distance myself from her but it only lead to me wanting her more, sharing the darker, wilder side of passion with her.

“And I fear that on discovering her birth and the usual expectations for a woman of her station, the fire and the zeal with which she comes to my arms will fade; I fear, irrationally and insultingly, her fidelity. I feel jealous and enraged at the thought of sharing her company with anyone, though she has more than proved her faith and love for me. Even locked tight behind Thistledown’s walls, her thoughts might fly elsewhere should I reveal all now. I am a selfish bastard, and no better than a brute to unjustly doubt her, but I want her all to myself…just a little while longer.”

In the silence following this diatribe that ends on a soft, broken note, Mulan looks at each of her partners for a while before slowly sharing her opinion. “Waiting to confirm her identity by showing her to the Dowager Duchess is the most cautious course, and while _you_ are sure, my friend, it _would_ be cruel to get the child’s hopes up only to have them dashed. What shall you do when the Duchess sees her and pronounces her a fraud?”

“I will have Emma as my wife and no other. The council may have forced my hand by insisting I marry, but she is the other half of my soul and I will not let them take her from me.”

All three inhale sharply in surprise, but Aurora gains her composure first. “You mean to make a commoner queen? Is that even legal? You are the heir after all, and your marriage will make or break your throne and the kingdom.”

“I have Fairfax looking into just that. If I am married and present the council with a _fait accompli_ , can they have the union dissolved? Especially if I possess proof of consummation?”

“You had damned well better discuss **that** particular tactic with her beforehand; no woman deserves to have that most sacred and precious of memories spoiled for her, unless you are fine with her resenting you for the rest of your days.”

“With any luck, it should never come to that… But as much as I would love to talk about Emma, and all of my trespasses against her, for the next few hours, there is yet more news. When I mentioned you all relocating to the Bluffe again, I was not entirely jesting.” As Killian shares with them the details—Will’s intimation that the council will demand a royal wedding other than his own take place in the near future and Liam’s belief in the fatal nature of his illness—the three fall into profound shock, linking hands openly as if the touch of skin will keep them all anchored safely. He carefully hides the hopeful smile that he feels building within him.

“I know that this post was something that you all could live with, but we all know that it was effectively an exile—made easier perhaps by the fact that none of you would ever have to report directly to the king. Well, I will not begin or end my reign by bowing to the hypocrites and self-righteous factions at court, nor by denying loyal friends. This is all unofficial for the moment, but I shall need all of you. I would like to keep you in the capital with me, of course, but the Grand Marshal of Domitia is expected to be itinerant for most of the year surveying the defenses and reviewing the knights in service. Before you turn me down flat, please at least do me the honor of considering the posting?”

* * *

 

Killian wakes with the throbbing bass beat of drums reverberating in his skull and the tacky, furred feel of his mouth that announces he indulged in a few too many libations the night before. In his limited defense, he has not been cup-shotten since the day when news came of the dreadful storm that sunk Milah’s ship; and just as he has not had a partner to match him in sword-work, neither has he possessed a companion in drinking of late. The friends had remained awake far into the small hours of the morning, catching up on the mundane milestones of their lives as well as the gossip…

_“And how is Sophia handling the advent of the divine Miss Shepherd? Does she know that her governess plays quite another role when in your bed?”_

_Killian had imbibed to tipsiness, but was still coordinated enough to slam his goblet down on the table, rise with the speed and force necessary to overturn his chair, and reach for his sword before Milan and Phillip started chortling at how quickly he rose to the bait. Aurora just looked smugly superior as she flawlessly assumed courtly airs she had been schooled in long ago; her parents had been the old fashioned sort and wanted her to climb the social ladder through her skirts  and not the sword, refusing her vocation as a knight for years. Killian glowered and growled, but she matched him with a steady gaze over the rim of her glass._

_“You are far too out of practice, my friend; for you know just as well as I that the vipers at court will be slithering about and whispering all sorts of poison about her place in your household before her identity was revealed. And far too many people already know her as your servant for you to propagate a contradictory tale. Most will openly presume that she became your mistress for the money and power that you could bring her, a common whore for the prince with low, un-kingly tastes. But that is what they will say regardless of whether or not she turns out to be the heiress of Malfi. It will be worse if she is: bluest blood, in their minds, would have asserted itself too forcefully for her to ever lower herself and perform actual work; so, it must be that her father was a low-born upstart. Blood always tells, you know.”_

_“Enough! I already know myself for a thrice-damned fool, Aurora! The moment I brought her into my household is the moment I condemned both her and myself to receiving the basest of slanders and scorn. I promised her I could keep her reputation safe, and it is a vow I am doomed to break without wanting to. Do you want me to abject myself and confess all to the Stars? Because I have! She captivated my soul without a thought; she drove me mad with desire just by being herself. She was beauty and light, and I in my dark and hideous dungeon needed her shining in my hell. So I was selfish and I took her. Is that what you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I would gladly give up my throne for her, or that I would become a bloody tyrant just to silence forever with fear those forked and venomous tongues?”_

_The violence of his outburst stunned the other two in the room, his potent and direct rage prompting them to rise and attempt to interfere, but Aurora had raised a staying hand. Her eyes never left Killian’s, the words and emotion sparking in the air between them like steel upon steel._

_“You were selfish, Killian, but you are hardly the only man ever to be so. You can only protect her so far, because not everyone at court will be cowed by your new power and rank. Warn her; prepare her for the wagging tongues that will lash out at her in the open and in secret. And prepare yourself, my friend. I knew what I was provoking when I tweaked your tail just now, but an unreasoning storm of fury directed at the wrong noble will leave you both with an implacable enemy. She makes you feel again, has made you come back to life, but that rebirth has brought with it all sorts of emotions; be quick to defend her, as you should, but do not give your detractors the weapons they need in order to bring you down. Take care that you do not crush someone else’s dignity and pride in your zeal to protect your own. Remember the lessons of your youth, or you may not make it to your dotage.”_

_Killian subsided and then shrank under her scolding—having someone to live for, someone to love, made him vulnerable to hurt through that very well-spring of life. Emma and his love for her was his strength, but it was also a weakness that others might—nay, would!—seek to exploit for their own ends. ‘Know your enemy and never reveal the wounds inflicted’—true across the battlefields of war and the game-board of politics. Phillip had eased the remaining tension by proposing a toast to Emma. And another one to the Stars of Love. And another to lady loves. To lady loves who made men lose their wits with their beauty and stole men’s balls with their cunning. What little remained of conversation from then on limited itself to composing love sonnets drunkenly…_

Killian does not even remember the trip from the solar to these rooms. Blessedly, Wautier was prepared for or warned about his master’s unaccustomed night of revelry, providing him with a bath to wash away the stale stench of his sweat, a tisane for his pounding head, and a small loaf of dry bread for his queasy stomach. As he scrubs his skin mercilessly—the scented soap reminding him, as always, of Emma and what he has to look forward to at the end of this trip—he batters his foggy brain into submission and goes over his schedule for the day. A review of the troops and a thorough inspection of the castle and city walls will take him nearly all day, the sun setting sooner and sooner every day makes any thought of leaving this evening a pointless prospect. Travelling at night on horseback remains the purview of the criminal, the insane, the desperate, or the recklessly desperate; less than half of the kingdom’s special couriers are trained to ride in the night specifically because it is so fraught with risks and dangers, and, as he has specific cause to know, the king can be ruthlessly angry when those agents are employed needlessly. Killian sighs dejectedly—even though he had known this well in advance and planned for a second night’s stay, his heart is back in Sommere, safely protected by his servants and guards at Thistledown, likely employed in the Orangerie at their lessons this very instant.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qua?! Another new chapter?! ... You bet your buttons it is! ;)  
> And to answer a guest reviewer question: Mulan, Phillip, and Aurora are all in a relationship together.

Killian pulls on his gloves, briskly rubbing his hands together both to quickly warm the leather and to ease the fabric’s stiffness from the cold. When he opens the outer door onto the courtyard, his breath clouds instantly—storms or no, winter has already arrived in the foothills of the mountains, and its advent makes him more determined than ever to get home as fast as possible and remain there. He imagines more nights spent cozily with Emma, curled up together on a pile of pillows and furs before the roaring warmth of the fire whilst engaged in all sorts of pleasurable activities, both erotic and innocent; his mind presents him with a clear, sensory image of his head cradled in her lap reading poetry aloud to her as she cards her fingers through his hair, their skin flushed with just the right amount of warmth from the crackling logs and growing arousal.

The stamping and snorting of the horses shatters his delightful day dream and announces to one and all their indignant impatience at being exposed to the cold; woken and saddled at much the same time as their masters were being roused by servants, the animals lack the multiple, thick layers of clothing that make tolerable being out and about this early. Curiously, his three friends await him by Triton, all fussing over the horse’s comfort the way they would over Killian’s if he would allow it. Mulan comes to him first with a firm handshake and a hand to his shoulder.

“Be vigilant and on your guard, pupil mine. More than ever now, you must be wary of the dagger in the dark, the assassin in the shadows. Stars protect you, my friend.” Mulan surprises him by pulling him into an embrace, and it takes him a moment to return the gesture. She whispers something in his ear before pushing back and holding him at arms’ length. She nods, claps him on the shoulder one more time, and strides authoritatively toward his already mounted guards—no doubt to give them a final lecture or two before releasing Killian into their charge. Aurora comes forward next, taking both of his hands in hers and purposefully keeping his gaze.

“Be safe. I wish I could meet your lady love, for she sounds like a truly remarkable woman. Stars willing… I know from experience that what you have found in each other is a rare and precious gift; do not give her up for anything.” She smiles enigmatically on that last statement before pressing a kiss to his cheek and following Mulan, leaving Phillip to say the last farewell.

While arguably the one part of the triumvirate he knows least well, Killian has always admired the quiet strength of the other man; not as forceful a personality as Mulan, nor quite as adept at peacemaking as Aurora, something in the man’s stoic nature, his immoveable resolve and convictions completes the three-way partnership and give it a solid foundation which it might otherwise lack. But, as now, his hidden depths surprise even Killian at times. “They never heard the same stories about your family while growing up, mostly because Mulan was no longer a child and Aurora too far from court… But I did. Your father was good about keeping secrets, but mine was better at uncovering them. So, while they see the gilding, I know what truly happened behind the mask. You are a good man, Killian; I have always thought so. Do not let the mantle of power and kingship change that about you, and you can become a great man… And there is hope for that because she has already made you better than you were. Do not forget that.”

Killian merely stands there, stunned. Phillip ducks his head and moves to go, but stops at the rigid yet shaking grip on his arm. “Do they know?”

“Know that you doubt yourself and your worth because of your upbringing? Yes. A good spymaster keeps the details to himself though. Scarlet is good, but he lacks total discretion; my father taught him well, but he still has some things to learn. As do you, your Highness.” Phillip looks down pointedly at his arm and Killian slowly unclenches his fingers, releasing him from his grip. His friend disappears into the shadows of the hall quickly, as if he were never there; only the turmoil in Killian’s mind, agitated by the endless echo Phillip’s words, attests to his presence.

With sudden impatience to be gone and to be doing something, Killian mounts Triton, whirling around quickly to salute Mulan and Aurora. He signals to his guard and digs his heels into his horse’s flanks, passing under the portcullis through the gates and out into the city just as the sky above the towering mountains flushes pink and gold. He tries to focus on the feel on his mount beneath him, on the sounds of the quickly waking populace, but his brain resounds over and over with his friends’ parting words of wisdom and Mulan’s whispered assurance. _You are a better man than you believe_.

* * *

 

Before leaving for Dionya, Killian had extracted promises from both Emma and Sophia that they would not attempt to ride their assigned horses while he was gone; not that Master Noris would have countenanced such recklessness from inexperienced riders around his horses, but he had obviously felt the injunction was necessary. However, the ladies _were_ encouraged to visit the stables at least once per day in order to accustom themselves to the care and feeding of horses and also so that the animals could become acquainted with their new riders; developing bonds of mutual affection and trust between horse and rider are paramount, as both individuals must be perfectly in tune to the other’s every mood and emotion.

A skittish rider with an unfamiliar mount will transmit their fear and uncertain, bleeding their emotional insecurity into the animal and ultimately breeding panic; whereas an accomplished rider can usually settle a frantic horse, knowing the ways and means to transmit calm and reassurance to the frightened animal. Though their lessons have been relatively few, Killian and Master Noris had relentlessly drummed these tenets into Emma’s mind at least—as Sophia had continued to wheedle and cajole both her governess and the Stable Master into allowing her “just one quick ride around the paddock,” their success with their younger pupil has obviously been limited.

The first trip of the day immediately follows breakfast, as the kitchen maids can usually be prevailed upon to provide apples, carrots, and the odd sugar cube or two as special morning treats for their equine friends; and today is no different. Emma follows just a step or two behind Sophia’s excited skipping, secretly smiling at the memories of just one week ago. When Killian had revealed his surprise, she had had a difficult time restraining herself from kissing him right then and there; horseback riding had been the rarest but favorite activity of her childhood, and while she remembers sharing that fact in an offhand comment to her lover, she cannot at first believe he remembered such a mundane detail from a trivial conversation.

Her gratitude _did_ find expression, however, later that evening in his bedroom, where she gave him a thorough demonstration of her bareback equestrian skills. Just remembering their combined enthusiasm for the sport has her skin flushing pleasantly, making Emma grateful for the extra warmth and that the red in her cheeks can be attributed to the frosty nip in the morning air. The sun has been up for a few hours now, but its rays have diminished in their power to warm the fields and soften the bite of the breeze. She sends yet another prayer to the Stars for Killian’s safe journey and that he will return before the first snowfall.

Emma shakes her head at her own ridiculousness—the man has been gone for all of two nights and will be returning later this day, yet by gauging her anxiety for him and her anticipation for their reunion one would think he had been absent for a month! She follows Sophia into Papillion’s stable berth, nodding to the young lad who is assigned to help her learn how to properly care for the horse and her tack. After ensuring that her charge is in good hands and focused on her tasks, Emma moves on to Sicara’s pen where her own tutor and Master Noris await.

“Good morning, Master. Good morning, Claudine.” Emma hangs her cloak on the peg just outside the stall and eagerly takes one of the brushes in hand to begin smoothing out Sicara’s pelt.

“Bright good morrow to you as well, Miss Shepherd! As we discussed, Claudine is going to be taking her Journeyman’s test soon and will need to demonstrate adequate teaching skills. I’ll be dropping in from time to time to observe her, so do your best to ignore me—unless I’m shoutin’ about fire in the barn, aye?” The three of them laugh before settling down to work, first in making sure that the horse is comfortable before being fed—including mucking out the stall and laying down fresh hay under her hooves—and then practicing working her saddle and bridle off and on, so that eventually Emma will be able to prepare her own mount in the dark if necessary. _Hope for the best, but be ready for the worst, aye,_ had been Master Noris’ dictate on their first day of working with the actual equipment.

Emma hums low, harmonizing on the melody Claudine whistles as she watches and cares for a spare bit of tack. Given Sophia’s size, she’s much further behind her governess despite the lad set to help her; both women smile at each other as they overhear the princess’ dramatic complaints about the muck and the mess to be removed from the pens. She had roundly applauded Killian’s assertion to his daughter that a having a horse came with responsibilities as well as benefits, refusing to allow her to wriggle out of the care and maintenance portion of ownership. Because it was a truism of life as well as horses: while something, such as land, gives rights and privileges to its owner, it also brings with it duties and responsibilities. And while Sophia might understand the concept, she has rarely experienced the day to day practicalities of performing one’s duty.

Thankfully, with Francois’ help, the stall is mucked and Sophia can turn to the more exciting prospect of feeding Papillion. Her childish giggle and shrieks of laughter peal out whenever the young horse lips her hand in taking the proffered treat, and her babbling commentary can be heard above the shushing of the feed into the trough, the munching of the horses on their fodder, and the general murmur of the sounds of living beings throughout the stables. However, learning the proper way to cinch girths and shorten the stirrups appropriately appears to not be a favored activity, because even though they remain in the pen, they cannot practice on the actual horse given Sophia’s stature and size. The lad’s soft voice of encouragement and correction follows every loud complaint or exasperated sigh of failure and frustration; the boy’s patience amazes Emma, for it seems to be limitless where the younger, querulous pupil is concerned.

“You’re a natural with the horses, Miss, and unless I miss my guess, you have little need of practice in saddling.”

Emma looks over at the apprentice, who has a smug grin on her face and a knowing look in her eyes. The expression sends panic racing down Emma’s spine, her brain struggling to come up with a response that will deflect attention away from her and her relationship with Killian. Have they been seen? Does everyone _know_? “My father kept a saddle for our old plough horse, but almost never used it. I suppose the memories are coming back to me. And besides, Sophia definitely needs to learn; the extra time with Sicara won’t hurt either of us.”

“I know what you’re about, Miss. What’s more, I think I can speak for everybody when I say how glad we are to see it… ‘Tis clear as rain water you’re letting the princess while away the time in here instead of studying until his Highness arrives. So she’s sure to be the first to greet him when he gets here; not many fine ladies would think to encourage her excitement at seeing her father, nor indulge her so. You care for her happiness and his—that makes you one of us.” Claudine walks out of the stall with a nod, whistling away as she goes to check on Francois’ progress with Sophia.

Emma stands there for a moment, blind panic receding slowly and gradually being replaced by a glow of satisfaction and relief. She leans her head against the saddle and groans, delayed embarrassment hitting her—Stars alone know what she might have said given how close she thought they had come to discovery! Doubtless, most of the people of Thistledown would recoil in shock and horror from her if they knew precisely _how much_ Emma cares for the happiness of their prince in particular, and in what ways. Yet when the distinctive cacophony of half-a-dozen horses riding into the courtyard echoes throughout the stable, she cannot stop herself from smiling like a fool and running to collect Sophia from Papillion’s stall, who has already stuck her head out around the wooden fence at the noise. Her curious expression morphs into sheer delight just as Emma draws even with her and reaches out for her hand.

“It is _Papa_! Quick, Miss Emma!” She laughs at Sophia’s awed joy and allows herself to be pulled along into a childlike run to meet Killian.

* * *

 

Killian’s muscles begin to ache just as he and his guards cross over the boundary line onto the manor property, though one in particular has been aching since the moment two days before when he left Emma and Sophia behind. The journey would have taken all day if he had used the carriage, but he swears that next time he will stick to the bloody coach and its slower speed if it means not having to endure another separation from the loves of his life. Triton and the other horses, as if scenting their mates and their home, put on an extra burst of speed that has him whooping like a young boy with glee and he feels as if he fully understands the animals’ emotions in this moment. Killian’s home, Killian’s mate, are both within reach, and it feels completely right to be leaping at the chance to meet them faster.

Before long, the stableyard comes into view and Killian pulls back on the reins so that Triton does not trample any of the eager lads and lasses who spill out of the stable itself, waving and hollering a fond greeting. Just as his horse halts, he spies Emma and Sophia running toward him, skirts held carefully out of their way, and smiling brightest of all amid the throng of well-wishers. Suddenly mindful of the crowd of witnesses about them, Emma halts abruptly and pushes Sophia ahead of her, standing behind the group and a little apart; her smile falters a bit until he catches her eye, suddenly uncertain as to the change in her happy demeanor. She spreads her hands, palms up, to indicate the number of people present, and his own grin dims slightly with the realization—now is the time for formality and distance; their personal reunion must come later, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

Killian pastes his smile back on in time for Sophia, carefully reaching down for her hands and hauling her up onto Triton’s back with him, pulling her close in a fierce embrace. But he looks over her shoulder and around her mass of curls directly at Emma, and when he speaks, it is to both of them. “I love you, my dear. I have missed you so.”

* * *

 

While separating from Sophia after the midday meal is painful for him, being so close to Emma and unable to truly speak to her or even to touch her is its own brand of torture. He excuses himself and heads for the library, keen to finish whatever business he must for the day so that his night can be completely devoted to his family. When that particular thought crosses his mind, it occurs to him that he should be startled or taken aback at the idea, as he was when he realized that he felt more than mere lust for Emma; yet thinking of her, accepting her as an integral part of his family feels as natural and easy as breathing. She belongs here, by his side; now, more than even, he knows that his decision to ask for Emma’s hand, his choice to make her his wife, is the right one.

With perhaps a touch more bounce in his step, Killian makes his way to his desk. Despite Fairfax’s absence at the Bluffe, his junior clerk has kept all of the estate affairs in perfect order, so that Killian need only consult the short memorandum waiting at the precise center of his blotter to know what needs to be accomplished for the day. He works away with a will, focusing all his faculties and attention on the matters at hand with such gusto that he rapidly dispenses with the short list provided for him. He calls for a clerk, asking for the ledgers and tallies of the harvest to be brought to him so that he can go over the known yields and the projected figures.

The bound volumes are quickly fetched and placed before him, providing him with another task to which to devote his efforts and concentration. After a while, he stands to remove his outer coat and roll up his sleeves, suddenly feeling too warm in the room. He still sits at his desk, hunched over the figures when he hears a bustle from down the hall, the familiar tones of his steward’s voice rising plainly above other sounds. Fairfax himself and one of his young protégés round the corner and enter the library, eyes and faces alight with excitement and the cold air from outdoors. Both men bow respectfully before Killian, who waves the younger man away to his duties and motions for Fairfax to come forward. “You look like a new Granddam who has just heard her child had twins, man.”

The steward grins and preens—positively preens!—before his master. “That, my dear boy, is because I believe I have found what you are looking for. Proof positive that the Crown and Council have no legal right to forcibly dissolve an union of the heir.” With a flourish, he drops a formally composed and properly illustrated document—a fully realized legal defense of the law case for Killian’s remarriage. He scans over much of the flowery and archaic verbiage necessary for all law court pleadings, but his eye finally jumps to the heart of their argument and the legal precedent for it:

_Furthermore, an union freely and willingly entered into by an heir to the Crown of Domitia cannot be annulled nor a divorcement procured unless the heir himself or herself effects the annulment or divorcement by their own will and volition, nor can the heir be passed over in the succession unless by formal, personal declaration of abdication of the heir. The matter has been firmly enshrined in the laws of Domitia since the  rein of Henricius II of House Malleus in the fourteenth year of his reign. His heir, Prince Henricius (later Henricius III), selected as his consort a woman of neither lands nor means, duly married her without the consent or knowledge of the King or the Council, and consummated the marriage. The King requested that the Council rule in his favor and dissolve the union of his son and heir, or, barring the dissolution, to replace Henricius in the line of succession with his younger brother Alexandrus. Having debated and heard all proffered witnesses, as well as searching the statutes for past precedence, the verdict was delivered by the Master Sage Honorius is as follows: “For Stelläe has not set Her stamp of divine authority on one family alone above all others, neither can we Her people claim that one person is inferior in spirit and nobility to another, save by proofs of that person’s crimes and misdemeanors. We recognize this ability to cultivate nobility in our laws regarding Knighthood—namely, that any man or woman, be they born in hovel or palace, may present themselves for training in the martial arts and by the labor and sacrifice of their bodies, they may attain to the ranks of the aristocracy after a proscribed period of service. Thus, to claim inferiority of blood or character or property avails nothing in this matter placed before us. Should the prince choose of his own desire and volition to seek the dissolution or annulment of his marriage, then he may do so without prejudice to his Crown or his estates. Should the lady in question seek of her own desire and volition the dissolution or annulment of her marriage, she may do so, though she will cease to be styled as princess and will not be able to claim Crown lands, chattels, and revenues endowed to her during the course of the marriage, those goods and estates being forfeited upon the granting of their divorcement. In short, neither shall take from the other that which they were not possessed of before being bound in matrimony. To separate the prince from his wife by force or without his willing consent, and to dispossess him from his rightful inheritance of the Crown, would be tantamount to denying the very beliefs upon which this country was founded. We, the Council, must rule to uphold the law, and therefore find in favor of His Royal Highness, Prince Henricius and his bride, who will henceforth be known as the Princess Marie-Catrine, with all the rights and privileges thereunto proscribed”…_

Killian smiles warmly at Fairfax, trying to contain the excitement and the bright hope that the older man’s discoveries have provided to him, but he has no time at all to express his gratitude before they are interrupted by the anxious cry of one of the clerks who immediately begins shouting their names and running toward them from his area of the library. The distraught looking young man who had entered with the steward earlier—Henri, if his memory serves—rushes through his bow before handing a document to Killian with shaking hands.

“I didn’t mean to open it, your Highness, but it was slipped in among the other messages I normally receive regarding the account ledgers. Honest! I have no idea how it got in among the letters on my desk!”

“It’s alright, young Henri. You’ll be an old man before your time if you worry so…” Killian’s voice trails off as his mind makes sense of the words on the page.

 

_Written at Nova Gentian Palace, 2. Nona.KWSII7_

_My dear Brother,_

_In this instance you have full and free absolution from me to be an insufferable braggart for the day. First, despite the unlikelihood of my living long enough to sire a direct heir, the council has politely insisted that I wed as soon as possible for the “great good and comfort of the realm.” To that end and to ensure the unquestioned purity of my potential heir, I have chosen to wed our cousin, the Lady Elsa; as the eldest daughter of our mother’s sister, her claim to the throne is greatest after that of yourself and Sophia, thus I am able to quash our Uncle’s pretention to the crown through his wife’s right and to secure his support in the future. In point of fact, I write from Denis’ estate as preparations are being carried out here with all due haste. Initially, I had received the council’s approval to delay the nuptials until our mass arrival at Thistledown Hall, so that we could be married with you and Sophia there to complete the bridal party._

_However, our ambassador from the White Kingdom , who attends our progress, has just received an urgent dispatch from his master informing him that their northernmost ports have been hit by a winter hurricane and their other harbors are being bottled up by great mountains of ice. Your fairy woman’s weather witching has proved accurate and I have ordered emergency actions be taken to get the harvest in as quickly as may be accomplished._

_Thus, rather than pressing forward at this time, we will remove to the comfort of our castle of Leancort after collecting Lady Elsa’s household and belongings. We will be married in the town’s central temple within the week. Laugh if you dare, brother, and feel as smug as you like, but you and I both know that you too will soon be meeting a bride and a priest before an altar. Consequently, Lady Elsa’s younger sisters, Lady Anna and Lady Ingrid, will be joining the party; keep in mind that Elsa herself is twenty years my junior, and you could do much worse than marry a younger woman whose mind can be easily molded and shaped to suit your rigorous intellectual and moral standards. We must also talk of the future—of Sophia’s future in particular. Until later, my brother._

 

 

Killian dislikes so very many things about this letter and for a few moments it stirs a maelstrom of emotions within him. But time is of the essence and he knows that he cannot waste precious seconds on his own troubles and worries, forcibly repressing them beneath the accustomed weight of responsibility and jumping into action. He strides to the library doors and sees James waiting patiently out in the corridor. “The king has finally heeded my warning, but it seems that winter will be here even sooner than we expected and has already iced over the northern ports of the White Kingdom. Please pass the word for all messengers to assemble in the stable yard within the hour, packed and ready to ride to their assigned posts.”

The older man’s eyes widen a fraction in fear and surprise, but he recovers himself quickly, making his bow of acknowledgement and walking away briskly to carry out his prince’s orders. He mutters a few words to Fairfax and Henry that send them off on vital errands, rapidly fixing his shirt and donning his coat before rushing out of the library. Killian blindly finds his way to the kitchen and informs Chef and Mrs. Potts not to keep dinner waiting for him, asking the housekeeper to inform the others as to his and Fairfax’s whereabouts and the reasons behind their absence. He yearns to go to Emma, to hold her safe and secure in his arms and tell her himself that the dreaded day has arrived and that sooner than expected. But he knows that if he indulges himself in this manner, that once he wraps himself in her, there will be no coming back—he would remain with her, his duties as a liege-lord be damned.

He does not even let his gaze stray toward the stillroom as he leaves the kitchens and swiftly, yet calmly makes his way outside to the stables. The twilight air strikes him hard, its chill biting deep into his flesh despite the layers of clothes, refusing to let him even for a moment forget the dearth and danger they all face from the elements and spurring his sense of fear and doubt. He had not even realized how close to nightfall the hour had come before stepping outside. The yard echoes with shouted instructions and the snorting and huffing of disturbed horses, young lads and old hands alike rushing to and fro as they gather tack and saddles, blankets and saddlebags, preparing their charges for a long night of riding.

Despite the torches and lamps burning bright enough to hold the dark at bay Killian keeps himself to the edge of the stables, out of the light and away from the purposeful bustle of his workers. Soon, the messengers—his official clerks and representatives for each and every town and village within his domains—arrive with their packs, swiftly and unerringly find their appointed mounts, and begin conferring with the horse’s grooms; each man carefully rechecks all the buckles, tightening girths and lengthening stirrups where necessary, feeling around the bit and bridle to ensure the animals are fit for however long they will need to be in the saddle. He notes their caution and care with a small glimmer of pride.

Last of all, Fairfax strides out into the firelit night with a thick sheaf of papers in hand—final admonitions and instructions for the messengers themselves and for the officials and proxies who await them at the other end of the journey. He finds his master with very little trouble and stations himself by his side. The presence of steward and prince causes a ripple of hushed uncertainty before each man and boy noticeably holds themselves straighter and taller, lengthens his steps of quickens his fingers in their tasks. They cannot fail their lord and cannot appear to be shirking their duties; their friendly banter and raucous play ceases altogether as the messengers slowly make their way back out to the courtyard to receive their prince’s blessing.

Killian swallows, uncomfortable with trepidation—his doubts and fears running rampant and taunting him with all the ways his plans could fail—but finally holds his hand up for their silence. “I cannot express my gratitude or the gratitude of His Majesty King William at your willingness to serve our people. I know that many of you have sweethearts and wives, lovers and husbands who you will not be able to see again for many months because of your readiness to act as messengers and couriers during this coming winter. I am sending you all out now because it has already hit our neighbor to the east, the White Kingdom, in their northern ports and provinces; this proves to me that our warning and our preparations have not been foolish or in vain. Take care of yourselves, take care of your mounts, and pray to the Stars that all goes well and that you will have no need to ride back here until spring. May the Stars shine upon your comings and your goings. Thank you.”

A cheer goes up among the assembled mass of men and boys, one that suddenly transforms itself into an enthusiastic chanting of his name. “Prince Killian! Prince Killian!”

Even the Stable Master and Fairfax have joined in the ringing cry, the genuine devotion of each person readily apparent in their faces—they believe in him, they trust him, they have absolute faith that he will see them safely through this struggle. He acknowledges their acclaim with a hand over his heart and a formal bow to them all; in return, each man pumps their fist over their hearts and bows at the waist before scrambling to get the messengers mounted. A young piping voice starts up a particularly ribald ditty that is quickly taken up by deep bass and middling baritones. As they swing up on their horses and kick heels to flanks, the song continues to swell out into the evening sky and rings through the courtyard until after the last of the horses has trotted out of sight.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a fogging (erotic) and reference to a past flogging (punishment(; both instances of its use are highly important for Killian's character development.

While slightly shocked by Killian’s absence when they go in to dinner, Mrs. Potts quickly informs them all in brief that he and Fairfax are seeing that the messengers start their journeys throughout his lands, Sophia accepts the loss of his company with equanimity; Francine frets and speculates more and more outrageously with the housekeeper over what new troubles this could portend. But Emma endures in tortured silence. She knows that this was part of Killian’s plan all along, to send a courier to every town and village, so that if there were any disaster, someone could be easily and swiftly sent to him with the news and requests for aid. Yet she must sit and converse and feign ignorance while she would much rather be at her prince’s side—he must have received word about winter’s arriving, much sooner than even she had imagined. He has laid the best of plans, and now all he can do from here until spring is worry and second-guess his every decision. She resolves that no matter their signal, she will refuse to be kept from his bed tonight… Except that even after Fairfax arrives to join them at table with an apology on his lips, Killian never does.

She waits patiently through every course and though she mechanically eats everything on her plate, she does not taste a bite—as if Killian’s absence or her worry for him prevents her body from working properly, as if she is no longer her own. The thought, or rather the precise wording of it as it passes through her mind, strikes her to the core. Was it truly only two months ago that they began their affair? And did she not make it a part of her bargain with him that she would remain free and unattached to him, able to cease their liaison at a moment’s notice should she choose? Despite the profound intensity of her attraction to him, she had been confident at the time that her heart and his would remain untouched over the course of their dalliance. She could not have imagined that his desire for her, nor hers for him, would change and grow into something more, something infinitely wilder and purer that lust. The nature of their contract has altered, without permission from either of them—for, unless Emma misses her mark, Killian did not expect his regard to deepen either. And just like her, his immediate reaction to the unforeseen is to withdraw and to protect his heart.

The meal ends with no sign of Killian, but his absence steels her resolve to seek him out tonight regardless of the consequences; he needs her, and stubborn man that he is, he will fight that clawing, piercing desperation with everything in his soul so that, in his own eyes at least, he will not seem weak. She goes to the library, searching for something to read which will take her mind off of Killian; but the lack of clerks and the conspicuously messy and abandoned desk only reminds her of what has passed and makes his absence that much more present in his mind. She knows he is likely with Sophia right now, tucking her in and letting her innocent faith in him soothe whatever doubts gnaw at his mind. Emma picks a book, but quickly finds that she can neither sit still nor focus on the words in front of her. She reads the words, but her thoughts fly thick and fast, so that she cannot remember what the book is about, nor even provide the topic under discussion.

Disgusted with herself and her distraction, she knows that going into the Orangerie and working would not be the best idea—she might inadvertently “weed out” some vitally necessary plants or cut off buds instead of blown flowers. She finally admits defeat and goes to her room, dressing for bed and then pacing before the fire. She worries as to what state she will find Killian in when she finally does go up to his rooms: Will he rage and bluster and send her away? No, for he spends his anger and his other emotions in actions, not in words. He will be consumed with terror and panic, with a sense of helplessness that does not sit well with his desire to be in control and to be confident. Will he do his best to tire them both so that he will not need to speak, will not need to give vent to those tormenting emotions? Yes, but she is a patient woman and they have plenty of time. Distantly, she hears the chimes denoting the hours, counting until she is certain that Sophia is already in bed and that Killian will likely be in his chambers.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, she startles somewhat to see the door already open and feel a great deal of heat flowing into the cool air of the passage. Every candle on every candelabra in the room is lit and the fire has been built almost dangerously high. Killian sits in his favored chair with a glass of liquor in his hands, eyes fixed on the doorway where she stands. “It took you long enough. What kept you?”

His terse speech startles her, but it also informs her a great deal about his state of mind. He prefers to handle his fears by channeling them into anger, and providing his fury with a target. Acting on instinct, she comes to his side and kneels by his chair like a chastened slave and addressing him with the honorific he normally despises to receive from her. “Apologies, my lord. I was uncertain of your schedule this evening, my lord, but had hoped to anticipate your needs. I am sorry for making you wait, my lord.”

She keeps her head bowed, not looking him in the eyes, and when she finishes her little speech, presses her cheek to his thigh. The hand not holding the tumbler of liquor hesitantly reaches down to stroke her hair, not rejecting her pose of contrition and submission. “Indeed you did not, so you are forgiven this once for your tardiness.”

She rubs her face against him, catlike, in her need to transmit her happiness at being near him in a physical way. “Am I allowed to speak freely, my lord?”

The hand in her hair still and then reaches to lift her head up. She complies and looks at him, seeing his eyes for the first time since this morning: the blue iris is the darkest she has ever seen it, turbulent with more than lust; there is a pain, bottomless and unfathomable, that she does not understand, but longs to. “You may always speak freely with me, Emma. You have absolute freedom here with me, for I always want for you to be here of your own volition and desire. Forgive my harshness?”

She smiles brightly at his words; how can he not know that she is no longer free, that she is bound to him in ways that she could never have imagined? And not only this, but that she chose her bondage and revels in it? “There is nothing to forgive, my lord. I only worry at the heaviness of heart I sense. Is there anything I can do to ease your burdens, my lord?”

He hesitates and almost imperceptibly flinches, but she notices both. He reaches over to the table beside him and grabs a wooden box from it, placing it on his lap between them. He gestures for her to open it. She lifts the lid, uncovering a black velvet lined case that holds a flogger. She gently ghosts her fingertips over the instrument, observing the careful craftsmanship. Killian has spanked her before and used his riding crop, but using this will open up something new—for both of them, she believes. “Would you like to use this on me, my lord?”

He nods, swallowing a thought before tossing back the last of his brandy. “I would enjoy that very much, Emma. But I want you to be sure. Handle it so you may be certain.”

His request does not startle her. Given all she knows of his nature and of the whispered reports around the table tonight, the black mood that had doubtless descended over him as he watched his men gallop off into the gloaming carries over now into their bedroom activities. He quietly hands her the flogger so she can familiarize herself with it: the lovingly cut and cured strands of suede are soft as rabbit’s fur or lambskin to the touch; but the knots at the end of each possess a strange quality to them—unyieldingly supple, both marble hard and whisper soft. A contrast as achingly familiar to her as her lover’s mind, complex and confusing yet recognizable and ultimately knowable. She knows, even if he does not, that the blows to her skin will ward off his demons, drive away the darkness that troubles his soul. She places it back in his hands and silently removes her robe, so that she is completely naked at his feet.

“Go to the bed. Lean forward and place your hands on it. You can kneel if that will be more comfortable for you, but then do so on the bed so you will be at the right height.” She nods and immediately goes to do as he commands, tucking her feet so that they touch the back of her thighs and stretching her back so that its full, bare length is open for his chastisement. His first strike lands gently and tentatively—not hesitating, but testing, stoking her fire and whetting her appetite for more; his hand follows each lash, palms smoothing flat over her flanks before the pad of his finger traces the barely-there blush, Another careful blow follows, and another—each time, his broad hands tease over her increasingly flushing skin.

“How does it feel, Emma? Describe how the lash makes you feel.”

“It is warm, like…like rubbing your arms to bring back the warmth when the day suddenly turns cold.”

“Very good, Emma. Now I want you to keep count aloud, and when I say, ‘Tell me,’ you are to immediately describe how you feel, what the lash makes you feel. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord. I understand. I will obey your commands as perfectly as I can, my lord.”

He cracks the flogger against the counterpane just a few inches short of her left hand, but she refuses to flinch. She can show no fear in this moment, for he possesses enough for the both of them. “I know you will, darling. Spread those legs open so I can see and touch your quim. And what is your halt word, pet?”

“Blue star, my lord.”

He traces the knobs of her spine before trailing his finger down, carefully circling the soft ring of muscles and the sensitive skin just below it. Emma’s body quivers appreciatively in response, but she does not allow the sensations to make her squirm away from his touch or do anything save tremble in anticipation. If he wants to explore and experiment all night long, they have more than enough time for such an interlude. Finally, he wanders further down and pets her sex, plumping the lips one at a time between his fingers and spreading her slick moisture around.

“Lovely. You are free to writhe, but if you try to avoid the lash, I will be forced to restrain you. And do not bite your lips or press them together—I want to hear every sound your body wants you to make.” He gives her pearl of flesh another lingering caress before he strikes the flesh of her back.

“One.” It feels like the prick of a thistle nettle, slightly sharp, but more startling than painful, and spread out across a line of skin. She tingles, not unpleasantly, as she patiently waits for the next blow and his command; the sting fades quickly and leaves behind it a drugged haze of heat.

“Two.”

“Tell me.” She gives him the details, how this second sting lingers a touch longer than the first and how else they compare. He strikes while she is mid-sentence, forcing her to pause in her recitation to give the count and then return to her analysis. The next few are clustered closer together and he clearly brings more force to bear; the comforting, glowing warmth of her skin now igniting and growing into a greater, harsher burn. The flesh of her thighs and the bottoms of her feet feel the blows with an agonizing sensitivity, her breath hissing out in genuine discomfort; he adjusts accordingly and avoids them, but files this newly discovered information away for later use.

While her back throbs with each heartbeat and prickles with shards of pain, the very same heartbeat floods her pussy with heat. Her cunt clenches after each blow, quivering with hunger and aching to be filled. And Killian seems to know this, to have anticipated it, because he will pause every so often after a series of lashes and will pinch her lips and her clit, or carefully rim her entrance to feel the way the muscles spasm for him, try to suck him in.

“Tell me.”

“Twenty. It—it is as if I have my back too close to a fire; the heat pricks sharply in places, as if starting to make my blood boil beneath the flesh. But—oh, stars! Twenty-one. But then each throb of my blood goes straight to my—twenty-two! It makes me ache for you—to touch me, to fuck me, anything! It—twenty-three! It is indescribably powerful, my lord! It is intoxicating!”

She cries out and whimpers, panting out her descriptions of each sensation; the closest comparison she can think of is whenever Killian teases and torments her and keeps her on the brink of orgasm for hours—an ever-changing kaleidoscope of pleasure-pain. By the time the final blow lands, her forty lashes minus one, Emma’s tears have been falling for a while and she has been begging him to take her in between each count. With no other warning save her trembling “thirty-nine,” Killian pushes her chest down onto the bed and buries his length fully inside her molten sheath, triggering her orgasm instantly and prolonging it as he thrusts relentlessly into her welcoming, rippling cunt.

The angle and the amount of teasing endured make him feel impossibly swollen inside her, engorged beyond his normal size and filling her to capacity and more. He rides her harder still, slapping and groping the globes of her ass which he had kept mostly untouched by the flogging, but the few welts sting and burn anew as he roughly manipulates her flesh. The speed and intensity of his pumping hips increases and becomes less of a fluid, graceful lope and more of a frenzied gallop until his stride falters entirely and he spills himself inside of her.

He own breath comes in startled gulps, sobs that calm as the rest of her body becomes boneless with satiation. She feels the cool linens drag against her face and her front as Killian eases her forward on the mattress and stretches her legs out from under her. His every touch is reverent and patient as he cares for every part of her body, save her back. He takes his time in making certain she is absolutely comfortable before beginning on the skin he has used most violently. Her nose catches the faint aroma of lavender and the pungent sharpness of tea-tree, and she stills, anticipating his first touch with quivering excitement. At first contact, she sighs blissfully.

His hands gently smooth the cream over her abused flesh; while Emma neither flinches nor makes any sound of pain, Killian’s breath hisses and hitches with sympathy over each weal. He drew no blood, but she can feel how near a thing it was, how close to the surface it now simmers under her skin and how easily he could have permanently marked her. Yet mostly, the combination of his tender, warm hands and the cool sting of the ointment against her flesh feed her still unsated arousal. He may have taken his pleasure already and given her an orgasm she will not soon forget, but she can almost touch the remaining tension riding the air and knows that given the proper spur and incentive the night may yet be far from over.

Emma arches into his touch, pressing herself more firmly against his palms and releases a low moan of encouragement. Killian halts his ministrations and then, to her surprise, removes his hands from her altogether. She glances over her shoulder at him, irritated at first, but then shocked at the sight of his evident distress; his hands held out before him with palms up, staring down at them in horror and disgust, as if they belong to some loathsome creature or someone else entirely. She sits up and moves to the edge of the bed to be closer to him. “Why did you stop, darling? What is wrong?”

His voice trembles, low and nearly inaudible. “How?”

Emma rises and goes to him, cautiously taking the apparently offending hands in hers. ““How” what? Please talk to me, Killian. What has happened that you stare and look so troubled?”

His eyes look wild, the startling blue gone midnight dark and nearly consumed by the pupil, as he searches her face incredulously. “I have hurt you, Emma! I just flogged you to the point of blood and then fucked you like an animal, with no concern for you or your desires! And I _liked_ it! How can you lean into my touch as if you crave it?! How can you stand the sight of me?!”

He draws his hands away from her as if they suddenly burn in her grip and strides toward the fire, pacing restlessly before it. Despite the nip in the air, Emma still refuses to cover herself, needing as few barriers as possible between them. She goes to him and deliberately steps in his path, halting him with a hand on his chest and a hand on his cheek. “Look at me, my love. Look me in the eyes, Killian. Do you see a trembling, wretched victim of your lust? Do I appear frightened or harmed or even unhappy at the evidence of your passion? Do I look like a woman whose lover has not seen to her pleasure? No, look at **me**!”

Only when her teasing prompts an expression of acute agony to cross his face and he shifts his gaze from her does she change to a more serious tone. “Killian, I consented to experimenting with you when we first became lovers, and then again tonight when you _asked_ to play with the flogger. Did I speak our agreed on halt word? Did I, at any time, give you reason to suspect that I was displeased with my lashings or discomfited by your roughness? I tell you, as I did both earlier by my vocal enjoyment and now: I was not at all worried or upset. I enjoy when your passion makes you act wild and reckless, and I am not made of such fragile stuff that a little rude handling will break me.

“But more than my own enjoyment, I understand why you needed this: you cannot control what will happen to your people this winter and that frightens you, so you needed to purge your demons by controlling me.”

“Do you not see?! I was not bloody well in control, love! I should not feel the urge to whip you—I should not need to hurt you in order to feel calm!”

“But you were, my love. If you had been out of control, you would not have given my skin the warming, careful blows to begin, you would have drawn blood, or you would have truly given no thought to my pleasure at any point; and yet you made certain to do everything correctly, which does not speak to you being selfish, callous, or unreasoning. And—”

“Stars, Emma! I am the one who deserves a whipping! For doing this to you, for failing my subjects, for—”

“Stop, Killian! My darling, you are a powerful man to be sure, but you are still only a man. And you presume far too much in thinking that you alone can forestall any and all harm that befalls the people of this kingdom. I have no doubt that they meant well when they raised you, but I could take a switch to your parents for instilling this insane level of responsibility in you! You are one man and you have done your best to avert disaster; you must stop blaming yourself, Killian, You must cease berating yourself for being merely human and finite. Your brother did what he thought was best at the time given the information that he had; there is no shame in that, and I doubt he is pacing and fretting and worrying as you are.”

“He never has.” The words come out small and soft, but they completely halt what she had planned to say next. However, she recognizes the powerful truth hidden in the statement and gratefully latches onto them; bit by bit, she pulls these much needed confessions from him, draining the poison from wounds that fester still when they should be long healed.

“Talk to me, darling. What do you mean?”

He searches her eyes and her face for long moments, a stretch of time that has her shivering with cold, and with fear of being locked out of his heart and mind again. Finally, he grabs the back of her neck and carefully draws her to his chest, brushing a kiss to the crown of her head and resting his chin there. Emma hears his heart pounding, still throbbing to a dervish’s tempo despite the lapse between their bed sport and now. “Do you know what a lash bearer is, Emma love?”

She shakes her head carefully, securing an arm about Killian’s waist and pressing a palm over his heart in order to keep him close. The hand not in her hair busies itself by tenderly caressing the lines of welts on her back, and it takes everything in her not to shiver and purr in arousal, knowing that he could and would all too easily misinterpret the motion. Even still, she cannot halt the wet pulse of desire between her thighs and insinuates herself yet closer. He sighs deeply before lifting his head away from hers and tilting her face up toward his, seeking answers in her eyes once more. Carefully, he takes her up in his arms and walks with her the few feet to his favorite chair, settling them with her comfortably perched in his lap with her legs draped over one of the damask-covered arms. As she waits for him to speak, his fingers continue leisurely mapping the transient new topography of her skin; her own skim the contours of his chest, collarbones, and shoulders while she impatiently clenches her thighs together. Her physical desires can wait; she must give him this moment to purge his soul and clear his mind first before he will be ready and willing to touch her with passion once more.

“When we were growing up, Liam and I had a young friend; an orphan boy who had nothing and no one in the whole world save that my parents chose to raise him with us. He was Liam’s age, almost to the day, and he went everywhere with us—on every foolish childhood adventure, to every session with every tutor able to expound on every subjects on which a king’s sons needed to become expert.  At first, I presumed that he was our brother, adopted of course but just as beloved to my mother and father as Liam or I. There was such a distance between us at the beginning—I was several years younger than them, so I wasn’t frightfully interesting to either him or Liam, but eventually, he and our friend allowed me to tag along.”

Knowing that whatever words he spoke next would likely be unpleasant, Emma’s hands begin a continuous, soothing glide along his arms, up his throat to caress his cheek, and then back down his shoulders—an aimless, gentling wandering. “I may have been four or perhaps five when the three of us got into some serious trouble, Jacques and Liam had recently discovered the allure of the opposite sex and fancied one of the serving wenches, and I was far too ignorant, but they asked me to deliver a message to her. I was to tell her quietly—they made me practice the speech until I had it perfect, and I never did figure out how they came to their knowledge of such clandestine missives; but in my childish haste, I spoke much more loudly than I should have.

“The Chef and a few of the other kitchen maids overheard me reciting the message; the man had always been good and kind to me, but he was nearly purple with rage when he asked me who had bid me say such words to one of the young ladies under his care. Naturally in my innocence, I told him all I knew, at which his face turned white and then purple again; I never even glanced at the girl, but no doubt she was mortified and ashamed, though the other girls seemed to circle around her comfortingly. Finally, Chef spoke to me in his kinder, more accustomed tone and bid me go back to my rooms and return to my studies. And that I was not to stop and speak of the errand and its conclusion to my brother or Jacques.

“It was nearing dark and my nanny had come in to dress me for supper, or so I thought. She was a cheerful old gossip, rather like Francine, so it should have alerted me that she was so quiet and subdued. I had forgotten the incident in the kitchen already, right until the very moment my nanny led me to my father’s study. And I saw him and my mother sitting in chairs before the fire—his face inscrutable yet grave and hers pulled down in lines of distress. And, of course, standing before them—heads at least hanging in apparent shame or embarrassment—were Jacques and Liam.

“My father asked me to stand next to my brothers and repeat verbatim the message I had been told to give to the wench—Diana was her name—and then tell him who had bid me deliver it. My mother had not believed the report of Chef, though my father had, so she was doubtless hoping that I could exonerate Liam at least from the charges; she gasped aloud at hearing such foul words issue from my mouth and began to weep when I confirmed that both of my brothers had urged me to the commission. My father then asked me if I understood the message at all, if I knew that the words I had spoken to such a nice young woman were crude, cruel, and shameful—shameful in the wicked thoughts and deeds that they represented.

“I was, as I told you, wholly ignorant and naïve at the time, but my father was quick to remedy my lack of knowledge: apparently, I had informed Diana that neither of my brothers would object to sharing her favors between them and that, as no one would believe her denials and protestations if they two were to speak out against her, she should cease rejecting them and agree to indulge them without further quarrel or resistance; that they knew she was far from pure in matters of the body and would provide other men as witnesses against her if she continued to refuse their kind offers. And _that_ , Emma love, is a highly edited and shortened version of my father’s explication.

“It was plain from my reaction to this that I had been an innocent accomplice up to that moment, but that revelation only saved me so far… Because I was the king’s son—because _Liam_ was the king’s son, it was deemed impossible for either of us to receive punishment in our bodies. No man or woman, it would seem, would dare to strike a child who would one day grow up into a great lord or into the king himself, for fear that he would one day take revenge for the blow and the insult done to his honor. And thus was the position of lash bearer created—a surrogate child who would take the stripes meant for the back of a prince.

“We all went out into the stable yard and Jacques was bound to a tall post which I had never seen used before, nor ever wondered at it existence. His shirt was removed and I truly saw his back for the first time… His back… darling it was crossed by so many scars, many of them silvery-white with age and the growth of his body. Liam had trespassed before and he took in the sight of his best friend’s back without flinching. Because I had had no idea of the enormity and purpose of what I had said, my whole punishment was to watch—my ignorance spared Jacques from receiving even more lashes than the ones that he and Liam had merited all on their own. The Stable Master walked out carrying a flogger, a much cruder and crueler one than this, for in its original form it is designed to tear the flesh and draw blood.

“I knew the man was one to spare the rod where the horses were concerned, so I could not imagine him truly whipping a lad of eleven or twelve. But the man knew his duty all too well—I cringed when the first lash struck and was openly weeping towards the end, even Liam paled when the Stable Master was finished and the healers went forward to untie Jacques and begin treatment. My father reminded me that should I ever again disobey or get into trouble, it would be Jacques who took the punishment in my place; and because my infractions had caused the lashes, I would be made to watch them be delivered.”

Killian’s voice falters, but his hand never stops moving as he stares into the fire, seeing nothing of the here and now, reliving those early horrifying moments. “I get the feeling that where you were concerned, his beatings and floggings were few.”

He swallows heavily before looking back into her gaze, eyes filled with deep shame and regret. “It took him two weeks to heal and I visited him every single day, bringing a book for him to read or something to eat. And every day, I begged him to forgive me; even though I understood that it was his own and Liam’s mischief that had started it all, I needed his forgiveness—perhaps merely for having been born to different circumstances. Each day he would casually ruffle my hair and say that of course he forgave me, but then he seemed to realize just how serious and disturbed I was by the arrangement, and this shocked him. He gave me the words, but I never forgot that feeling; and the few times I did get into scrapes, it made me physically ill to watch him be punished in my place. And every time I would visit him until he felt better, apologize continually, and always beg his forgiveness.

“I am a far from perfect man, Emma love. I have failed, time and time again, to save the people I love and care for from suffering. I swore that I would never take vengeance if only my father would let me take the lashes I deserved, but he seemed to realize that letting someone down, that failing hurt me more, especially when it resulted in someone else’s pain. I am not perfect, and I deserve to be horsewhipped for treating you so.” She cups his cheek with one palm, pulling his forehead down to touch hers.

“This may come as a shock to you, darling, but I know already. And it is not perfection that measures a man, but the lengths he goes to in order to be a **good** man. You worry, you care, and you try. And if, after all that, you still believe those evil thoughts and doubts that tell you that you deserve a whipping? Then, my love, I am more than happy to be your lash bearer.” She shifts in his lap and straddles him, gently guiding one of his hands to the pool of hot arousal dripping from her quim. Tenderly, she kisses his forehead, his brows, his nose, his chin, his cheeks, his eyelids. When he moves as if to remove his other hand away from her back, she stops him and shushes him.

“Touch them. They burn and sting so sweetly, my prince, like your cock as it glides through my cunt. Hot and swollen, impossibly wrong and perfectly right at once. Each one placed precisely so, such a careful, pleasurable punishment.” His hands drop to her waist, fingers clenching and digging into her skin as she gyrates on his lap. She feels the exact moment when he loses his recriminations and anger with himself, when he lets go of the past and rejoins her in the present. She wraps her fingers around his hardening length and guides him inside of her, slowly and sinuously rising and falling with every breath. His hands remain at her hips, while she keeps one of hers on his shoulder for balance and the other wanders along his skin at will. Not once during their sweet, tender ride do their eyes break contact; not when one leans forward to catch the other’s lips in a kiss, not when a particular inch of flesh is delicately fondled or given homage, not even as they meet their glorious climax together.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First, thank you all so much for your patience in waiting for the next update for this story; your loyalty and your excitement for me to share it was one of the things that helped me get through a really tough time. I don't know if my medical issues are ever going to be completely over, but I do feel physically and emotionally better than I have in years. For anyone who read this story and has written a review, I can't express how grateful and humbled they have made me; you guys encourage me to be the best writer I can be. Second, this chapter is dedicated to my dynamic duo of Michelles, Kate, and Carmina; you ladies seriously rock. Last, this chapter ends on a cliffhanger, but only because it felt like the right spot to end a particularly emotional scene. But aside from final edits, the very next one is ready to be uploaded; so I will not leave you all hanging for long and your patience will be rewarded. Love, hugs, and blessings for you all! - JJ

Emma finds herself distracted all day, constantly thinking about the many revelations of the night before and what precisely to do about them. When Killian had first broached the subject of introducing pain for the purposes of pleasure into their bedroom play she had been surprised by the concept, yet more than willing to attempt an experiment with him in pursuit of her quest for erotic knowledge. They had fully discussed the hows and whys of every act before indulging; he patiently but excitedly explaining in excruciatingly sensual detail how the ache of delayed satisfaction, how the sting of pain would bloom into perfect, fiery bliss. And likewise revealed what it should not feel like and impressed upon her the necessity of informing him immediately if she felt at all uncomfortable or uncertain of her feelings. Honesty and communication, he had said, were vital to the success and mutual enjoyment of such disports.

In the haven of his bed and in their moments of blinding passion, telling him all the exquisite ways her body sings for his comes easily and naturally. But baring her soul to him? Admitting that, contrary to their arrangement and all sound reason, she has allowed her heart to become involved and that she now knows she loves him? That love and attachment are feelings she fears above all else? What little Emma knows of his marriage is that he loved his Milah passionately, but that she did not return the same level of devotion; her parents’ affection was obviously mutual, but all of her other points of reference for what ensures a good marriage come at distant removes. Yet in spite of his deep, sincere love for his wife, Killian was able to keep living, was able to transfer and channel that devotion toward his child—or, rather, enlarged upon what he already felt for his daughter—giving him the will to live and move forward. Unlike her own mother…

She shudders at the memories she normally shuns. To Emma’s mind, love will always be dangerous for the absolute power the emotion gives over the lover to their beloved, and hers for Killian feels like the darkest and most painful of secrets. She fears… so many possible outcomes! She fears his kind indifference, her heart slowly transforming her into his mindless thrall. She fears his righteous disgust with her—a sentiment she certainly shares with him—for violating the terms of their agreement. Yet neither can she deny her sense of responsibility to him, of needing to honor her promise, which ultimately spurs her to action; she knows she cannot keep this self-knowledge a secret for long, knows that even if her mouth will not speak the words then her eyes and body will proclaim the truth to him sooner or later. And the lie of omission will hurt him far worse than a freely proffered confession. Her love will most likely bring an end to their bedsport, but she must find a way to be strong in spite of her weakness for him; for both their sakes, she must bring about the end of their liaison by declaring her love and surviving his rejection.

* * *

 

Letter: written 6. Nona at Gracefall Manor; received at Thistledown Hall 10. Nona.

To Prince Killian of House Sonoian, etc.

_My dear brother,_

_Much of my time the last few days has been spent in emergency meetings, scrambling to save what we can of the harvests, all while we travel to Leancort_ en masse _. Perhaps you will think me unconscionably unromantic, but I had rather presumed that our fair cousin’s acceptance of my marriage proposal was a foregone conclusion, what with my being her sovereign lord and having already secured the council’s and her father’s approval of our nuptials. Imagine my initial surprise upon discovering that the Lady Elsa sought a moment in private after dinner this evening, specifically to beg me **not** to officially propose and to “release her from an obligation” which she believes herself “ill-suited in temperament” and which she personally finds repugnant. Indeed, brother, our delightful cousin is as romantically disinclined as I, yet perhaps more so even._

_Naturally, I set myself to enduring a long, but tiresome debate and politely asked her to enumerate the reasons she has for seeking to abjure the state of matrimony and why she would deny herself the honor and privilege of being my queen. Oh, she was perfectly meek and subservient about her reply, swiftly denying any abhorrence for my person—I must admit that her reluctance piqued what little vanity I have been able to retain—but my astonishment was further increased on hearing of her ardent desire to be made faculty at our University at Arteme. We have always known her to be of a serious and studious bent, but I had not imagined that she was possessed of an avowed scholarly vocation!_

_Suffice to say, we engaged in a quite lengthy and candid chat about the situation, as neither of us can renege with any grace at this point. Normally I understand, it is part of the spousal privilege that confidences must be kept between the lady and I; however,  I have secured her permission to share the meat of our discussion as the nature of our accord will inevitably affect the future disposition of the kingdom, and so will require your assent and compliance. In the little time I have left, I have agreed to be Lady Elsa’s devoted husband in truth as well as name, and she shall be my wife._

_In the most likely course of events, should I die without leaving behind an heir of my body, we ask that you pay the Lady Elsa’s dowry to the University at Arteme, so that she may join the academic community. We well know that her parents’ ambitions will seek to prevent any loss of her power and dignity as queen, so I have spoken with my clerk and had him insert a clause to this effect in the formal contract of marriage, which the Lady Elsa’s parents will have no cause to see or sign._

_However, should the unlikely occur and the Lady carries my heir after my death, you are to be designated lord protector of the realm and will head the regency council for my child. Our cousin will have a place and voice in this council as the Queen Mother, but should she prefer to remain at the University or her scholarly duties prevent her from attending, she may designate a proxy to act in her stead. Legally, a proxy member of the council will be necessary in her absence to ensure she is satisfied with the arrangements made for our child and any decisions made on its behalf. Lady Elsa, however, informs me that as she has been well apprised of your level of care and devotion to your own child, she doubts not but that you are and will be a most estimable guardian. She assures me that aside from her vocation, she has had little time to spend around infants and young children, and considers you far more qualified than she to see to a child’s daily care. She does not anticipate, but cannot “categorically deny the possibility of”, remaining with the child beyond the strict limits of necessity. Such future potentialities must be discussed between the two of you, as my input will account for naught._

_For all her demure sweetness, there lurks beneath the surface an adamantine core to our cousin which I can only admire; truly, she will make a magnificent queen, for all her protests to the contrary. Sad to say, but neither of her sisters nor the Lady Drusilla Tremaine possess the reserved dignity or innate, quiet strength which would serve a consort well; though, one hopes that such regal bearing may be learned in time. The ambassador from the White Kingdom has broached the idea of a marital alliance between yourself and their Princess Marguerite. I know little of the lady herself, but given the dearth of options, we must consider all possible candidates for your bride—much depends upon her._

_Sincerely,_

_Liam_

* * *

 

Letter: written 7. Nona at Merrychance Hall; received at Thistledown Hall 11. Nona.

To Prince Killian of House Sonoian, etc.

_My dear brother,_

_How strange to find myself engaged to be married once more after all these years, first of stalling and delaying the confirmation of my betrothal and then having finally dissolved that clause of our treaty with Pastrusa. They say that marriage is supposed to settle one, and yet given who I am now—precisely who I always expected to be—I can truly say that I have never been anything except settled. Or at least, so I believed until Lady Elsa and I had our intimate discussion and come to a mutually agreeable accord. I find her far more interesting than I expected, and certainly infinitely more than capable of conducting a vigorous negotiation; for all that she is half my age, she is a match for me intellectually and temperamentally. T’is a pity we shall not be married long._

_You might accuse me of waxing maudlin and sentimental, but I find that a sentence of death tends to clear away much of the dross of life and force one to see and accept what really matters in this world. Had we more time, I believe I might have come to love her one day; a milder, more moderate emotion, yet love all the same. Strange, that all our lives we had the example of our parents’ marriage, and yet I never once managed to love another person with the same certain clarity, that surety, which they seemed to possess innately; I dare say that I have never loved before, not truly. How did you know that it was love you felt for Milah, and that she loved you?_

_All this talk of love… I am doing my duty as king by marrying Lady Elsa, just as you will do yours in marrying for the kingdom. Our parents were blessed in that their affections also met the needs of political expediency; you were blessed in your first choice of bride, that my betrothal to a foreign princess allowed you a greater degree of freedom in selecting your wife from among the lower orders of the aristocracy. I know you still honor Milah and her memory, but keep my words in mind—few in life find themselves twice blessed in finding and holding fast to love, and for those of our exalted rank the numbers are even fewer. Treasure those memories and revel in that blessing, but do not let emotion cloud your judgment when the time comes to indicate your second choice. The Stars cannot shine on you always, Killian._

_Sincerely,_

_Liam_

* * *

 

Killian runs his hands through his hair in frustration and agitation as he reads his brothers letters again; he does not know whether or not to be relieved or frightened by the utter lack of reference to a marriage or betrothal for Sophia, but all of his instincts as a father have him cursing the idea and its originator. Granted, Liam himself had been plight-trothed at a young age to a Pastrusan Infanta and had also broken the pledge once he became king, but Killian does not want to place such a burden on his own child’s shoulders after having witnessed what it did to his brother. And all of Liam’s glaringly obvious bits of fraternal “advice” make him want to tear the parchment to shreds and burn it, while every single mention of the noble candidates and their qualifications makes him selfishly wish to run away altogether.

To make matters worse, he still has no clue how to appropriately broach the topic of his suspicions regarding Emma’s parentage, nor how to bring about the subject of marriage between them. Stars! He has not yet admitted that he wants to forget all about the rules of their agreement, that he loves her more every single day and despairs at the thought of losing her! He wants her to openly claim her place by his side, not as his inferior but as his equal, as his partner in life. Her cool words echo in his memory, taunting him with the challenge hidden beneath:  _I will be yours, Killian, but only so long as I may remain my own._

How is he to convince her that being his wife will not mean that he expects her to become someone else? That exchanged vows and rings will not diminish her person or destroy her liberty? The heart of the issue remains: so long as she believes herself to be a commoner, she will always stand behind her conviction that binding herself to him will be to willingly enter a cage, and no amount of persuasion on his part will convince her of her true identity. Or is he wrong to doubt the strength and purity of their affection? Neither of them has made grand speeches and bold declarations, but have not their deeds—both in and out of the bedroom—proven that an uncommonly unbreakable love exists betwixt them and will stand the trials of time and experience?

And, baring a miracle, it appears as if he will have very little choice in ascending to a throne he has never desired. Can their love and a passionate liaison like theirs survive the scrutiny of a court full of enemies just waiting for an opportunity to pounce and destroy them? Will their responsibilities as king and queen overtake them both, pushing their connection and their family life to the margins? That Emma will rise to the occasion, he has absolutely no doubts, but can he be husband, lover, father, confidant _and_ king? And this mooted betrothal for Sophia—can he set aside his fond paternal love and look at her future as a mere piece of political strategy? He has rather foolishly been hoping, in the absentminded way of devoted fathers of little girls, that the subject of his daughter’s marriage would never be brought to his attention. Now, the thought alone is enough to put him in need of a strong brandy, no matter than the day has just dawned and he has yet to break his fast.

Shoving the letters back into his drawer of unanswered correspondence, he looks down at himself and swears at his already rumpled appearance—cravat undone and hanging twisted down his chest, shirt coming untucked, and nearly all the buttons of his waistcoat not in their proper place. Nothing short of a bout of vigorous exercise, a long and steamy bath, and a fresh change of clothes will do in order to bring his body and mind into any semblance of order. The thought of burying himself in Emma’s lush, yielding flesh, of spending hours exhausting themselves in amorous activities, gives him a proud, aching cockstand in seconds. Stars! How he hates all the subterfuge and yearns to proclaim his love for her to all the world, if only so that losing themselves at all hours of the day could be a regularly anticipated occurrence. Letting out a frustrated groan, he strides out of the library and toward his rooms, prepared to put on proper boots and fetch a jacket before heading out to the stables and a ride with Triton.

* * *

 

_The summer months had slowly turned to autumn as Snow and Emma worked the long days of harvest side by side; only a few of the village men had returned from the front lines, and most of those had become ill from camp fevers, were stricken with the soldier’s pox, or had been severely wounded. Despite the fact that the Shepherd family normally kept to themselves, many of the villagers eagerly shared letters and news with Emma while she was in the market, passing along any word of where her father had been or delivering one of his all too brief, too few missives. The ladies had worked tirelessly, counting down the days until winter when the fighting season would end; David’s homecoming was an event so eagerly anticipated that Emma’s birthday had passed without being celebrated or even spoken of, both women wordlessly agreeing that commemorating it could wait until their family was reunited once more._

_Emma was perched on the plough horse’s back, her small heels digging into his flanks to encourage him and hands dug into his mane to keep her balance; the soil, thankfully, simply needed a good turning rather than the smooth, even furrows it would require in spring before the planting. She was deep in the fields when in the distance she saw a group of riders coming down the lane and stopping before the cottage._ Papa’s home!

_She tugged on Pilot’s mane harshly, shouting the words over and over as if the horse would understand their import. Still dragging the plough in their wake as they changed directions and headed for home, she did not even notice the jagged line she made, tearing across the relatively orderly rows; nor would she notice it until after the thaw, a tangible sign of their grief etched in the soil. As she drew closer, she could only watch as all of the men who had ridden up—three in all—exited the cottage and mounted their horses, quickly wheeling around and taking the lane back toward the village. Emma pulled Pilot to a stop, confused and a little ashamed at her mistake. She was just about to turn the horse around and return to the fields when she heard it: a gut-wrenching, ear-piercing wail of agony._

Emma gasps as she startles awake, the phantom sound of her mother’s keening still ringing in her ears. Her heartbeat and harsh panting gradually slow to their normal, unlabored rhythms in the quiet of the early morning. Somehow, the absence of that remembered noise reminds her of the dreadful, eerie silence that had followed nearly 15 years ago. Snow did not shut down completely in shock, did not grieve by ceasing to work or eat or bathe. Day after day, she had helped Emma bring in the last of the crops and prepare their lands and home for winter. In all ways she behaved just as she had before the king’s messengers arrived with the letter of condolence and thanks, save that she never spoke a word about her lost love or mentioned his name ever again; Snow hardly spoke at all, and that only as much as was strictly necessary.

Naturally, the women of the village had learned of David’s fate upon the safe return of their own soldiers, and quite a few were sympathetic to Snow’s and Emma’s plight. But their offers of assistance and soft compassionate words were met with a stony silence, the sole exception being that when the apothecary’s wife had suggested it was time for Emma to learn a trade and that her husband was more than willing to take Snow on as a partner and make Emma his apprentice; that conversation had sent Snow into a blistering tirade, which had the other woman scrambling for the exit and Emma unable to look into her eyes at market for the better part of a year. She learned by slow, awkward degrees how to smooth over ruffled feathers and affronted sensibilities, and also came to a very important conclusion: to love is to be weak and vulnerable, and love breeds pain.

All through the tedious, anxious day these remembrances and thoughts of her mother, her father, and their ill-Starred love tumble through her brain, attempting to weaken her grim determination. She had made her resolution to throw herself on Killian’s mercy nigh on a week ago, yet none of her several plans seem to possess any merit save the one she savors the least. Thus, reluctantly and with more than a little trepidation, Emma asks Francine if Sophia’s bath can be managed without her assistance this evening, profoundly grateful that the oblivious nanny ascribes her distracted state to womanly troubles and quickly shoos her off to her “rest”.

Yet any notion of relaxation and sleep could not be further from her mind; she briefly visits her bedroom to collect her robe and a bottle of the scented oil she knows Killian prefers. As she fetches her things, she recalls her thoughts from that morning walk in the hours and minutes just before she met him and he turned her world upside down. How naïve and self-righteous she had been in believing she could never stoop to enticing and enthralling a lover, as if throwing defiance at the Stars and daring them to place temptation at her feet!

But then, she would never have imagined meeting a man who compels her the way Killian does; never imagined anything like their arrangement could exist; never imagined that her foolish heart would ruin everything by falling in love… Tonight represents an apology and a peace offering, an act of contrition as well as an attempt to soften the blow; she hopes and prays that Killian is much like any other man, in that he will likely be more lenient, more forgiving if completely, sensually sated.

As adept at lying to herself as the next person, it never enters Emma’s conscious mind that her intended seduction can be seen in any other light save her own: that truly it is a plea to be loved in return, a request to be allowed to stay in the one place where she has felt accepted and safe, an open yearning to be kept near all the objects of her love and affection. She refuses to see her plan as a secure snare upon her lover’s heart and body, because she refuses to believe—to even hope!—that he loves her in return (and if she suspects that that his feelings are more than a match for her own, Emma’s feet could not touch the secret stairs this night).

She ascends and enters his room as cautiously as ever, despite knowing that Killian remains below with Sophia and Gautier has finished with his chores for the evening. She tiptoes through his closet and into his bathing chamber; this is not her first return visit, but she has not been alone in here before, the luxurious opulence overawing her yet again as she draws her bath and begins to cleanse and perfume her skin. The slightly mysterious scent of Moonblooms permeates the air and tangles with the rising steam from the hot water, though Emma is sparing with the oil—the essence of the flower takes a great deal of time, effort, and quantity of blossoms to extract, making it very rare and the cost very dear. Even the very wealthy balk at the expense of the perfume; but for most, it is the lack of knowledge, access to the blossoms, and a disinclination to labor which keeps them from acquiring the prized oil.

Given the frequency of her nocturnal activities with her lover, Emma’s ability to harvest the necessary number of flowers which can only be collected at night has been severely limited; the full yield extracted over the duration of her residence at Thistledown is but ten drops, every one added to her jot of clean oil and the dab of lotion for after her bath. That she made these cosmetics by hand just for Killian’s delectation serves as a part of her penance—though he would dearly have enjoyed behaving otherwise, he has kept to his promise not to shower her with expensive gifts; since she has broken the terms of their agreement by loving him, she finds it appropriate to thus make a sacrifice of the fruits of her labor.

Carefully, methodically, she rubs the clean oil into her wet skin under and above the hot water, her focus on the task of preparing herself sending her into a kind of trance state in which her anxious energy slowly dissolves and is refashioned according to her purpose. Tonight is for Killian, for meeting his minutest needs and exceeding his wildest desires. As she drains the now murky water, wicks away the excess moisture from her skin with a towel, and proceeds to work the lotion into her flesh, Killian fills her every thought.

He will be pleased when he touches her warm body and will revel in its supple softness, in the enticing aroma of Moonblooms rising from her. He will be pleased to see her golden tresses—washed and brushed to a lustrous, silky sheen—spread out across his pillows and to see the neat blonde curls above her sex inviting his gaze to travel lower. He will be pleased by her earnest and eager desire to please and devotedly serve him. Her pose will communicate abject surrender, but her presence in his bed will subtly signal an invasion, a need to conquer and control. She meticulously sets her scene and now awaits the player she intends to direct.

Her hands begin to wander over her skin, her mind still focused on what will bring Killian the most pleasure and recalling a hundred fantasies whispered of in this very bed. But like all firsts, what burns brightest is the memory of their first time together—uninhibited and reckless against the table in her cottage—and the crystal clear image he had conjured for her from his own dreams. Though she owns no diaphanous veils of silk, no gaudy tissue to drape over her body, she also possesses no shame in baring all of her flesh to her lover. Emma closes her eyes and skims her fingers all across her skin, seeking those places that Killian adores exploiting to make her writhe and moan beneath him. She keeps her pace slow and unhurried, content to softly explore in order to while away the time.

Her timorous questing proves more effective that she could have imagined, accustomed as she is to Killian’s warmer, larger, and more skilled hands; but something about her own softer and slightly cooler fingers, her smaller palm, and the multiplied sensation of both touching and being touched spurs her to expand her area of discovery. She palms both of her breasts, hissing in delight at the way her nipples tighten and her hands start to shake at the silken brush of her hardened peaks. She skims downward, cupping them and pressing the mounds of flesh together; though no longer slippery with cosmetics, she knows just how slick her breasts can be when covered in clean oil or lotion, and an image flickers to life behind her eyes—their bodies glossy with sweat and oil, glistening and gleaming in the candlelight, the hard, hot flesh of her lover’s cock effortlessly gliding between the breasts she presents to him as an erotic offering.

A low groan shatters the illusion that she remains alone—lost in her own fantasies, she did not hear Killian enter the room and has no idea how long he has been standing there watching her; long enough for his trousers to look uncomfortably tight, his cravat to be tossed aside, and his waistcoat and shirt to be fully unbuttoned and untucked. Rather than startle and allow him to break her focus, Emma responds to his gaze by sinking deeper into her erotic performance, by permitting her body to become more aroused. Though she closes her eyes to focus purely on the sensations she creates for herself, merely knowing that he watches and yearns for her flushes her whole being with pride and desire. She burns for him alone, and for his pleasure.

Finally, her hands begin their slow descent toward her sex and she opens her eyes to watch him, to gauge his response, to anticipate what he hungers for most in this moment. When her fingers brush past her curls, she discovers just how inspiring, just how sensually enticing one’s imaginings can be. Her pearl of flesh feels hot and hard to her touch, and the slightest caress sends shivers racing up her spine; slowly, she parts her lips and dips one finger toward her entrance, pulling another groan from Killian who now kneels on the foot of the bed. His powerful body, blissfully nude, radiates contained energy, as if he were a dangerous predator coiled and ready to strike at the slightest provocation. All that leashed desire waits to spring upon her, but can be either banished or controlled by her will.

She sighs as she effortlessly sinks two fingers into her quim, her walls slick and already beginning to tremble with need. She spreads the lips of her sex open wider with one hand, while slowly thrusting into herself with the other. The warm caress of his hand clasping her ankle is not unexpected, her eyes narrowing upon him as if displeased. She frowns and shakes her head. “Watch.”

He jerks away from her in surprise, unaccustomed to her commanding him; but he obeys instinctively, curious and excited to see this new side of his Emma. She thrusts harder, her hips beginning to roll in time with her fingers, and the bold touches to her clit. She cries out, his attention instantly riveted by what she does to herself. “Yes. Watch. Watch what the thought of you does to me, Killian. See what you make me want. How you make me _need_.”

His delighted, wicked smirk twitches to life as it dawns on him that Emma is trying to fulfill one of his fantasies. He crawls closer on the bed, careful not to actually touch her. He breathes deep and lets out a long sigh before smiling up at her again, and naughtily leaning over her. He places a hand on either side of her hips, oh so vigilant to keep to the letter of her command; he closes his eyes and breathes her in, the scent of her arousal and the enticing perfume. He skims the air just above her flesh, just above where she strokes. “Are you certain you do not wish for my help—my guidance—my caress? Are you quite positive that you do not want something other than your own fingers buried in that lovely pussy? Filling you in ways that you cannot manage on your own? Bringing you to the precipice of ecstasy and then catching you once you fly free?”

Emma bites her lip hard—the warmth of his skin and the heat of his breath flows along her needy flesh; her own touch no longer feels as good as it did before he blazed into the room and captured her attention. “If I give in, then you will make this all about me. You always worship me… Let me worship you. Shall I tell you something wicked? Just before I realized you were here, a thought—a fantasy flashed across my mind. Would you like me to share it?”

Killian bites back a moan, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent once more before nodding for her to continue. The sight of his cock, red and swollen with a bead of his essence just beginning to form at the tip fills her with confidence and satisfaction. “I imagined us, both of us sweaty from fucking; but we were also covered in oil, our skin so slick and slippery. I was playing with my breasts, pushing them together for you, kneading them at your command. You crawled up my body, placing kisses over my stomach; then higher, sucking one nipple and then plucking the other, switching back and forth. You commanded me to stay still, but I couldn’t stop; and then you were kneeling above my stomach and your cock…”

“Stars have mercy, you vixen! Tell me!”

She smiles at the desperation, at the need in his voice. “Your cock was snug and hot, sliding so easily between my breasts. Warmer, harder than your hands… Is that something you have fantasized about?”

Killian lifts his head and practically glares at her. “No, but I will now, you bloody temptress!” The timbre of his aroused growl darts directly to her sex, setting light to the orgasm that had been out of her reach only moments before. Her back arcs, pulling her shoulders from the bed, as euphoria sparks along her nerves. She vaguely hears his whimper of longing as he pulls her drenched fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean; aftershocks ripple across her skin and she cries out at her heightened sensitivity as he buries his head between her legs and laps up every last drop of her arousal. Emma’s entire body shudders, vibrating with her release and the aching emptiness of dissatisfaction; thoughts of Killian, visions and sensual impressions of him made her come, but there is a hollowness to such a completion.

She drags her fingers through his hair and yanks roughly, bucking her hips sharply upward to highlight her silent directive. Confusion and lust haze the normally brilliant blue of his eyes. Using his momentary hesitation to her advantage, Emma wraps her legs around his torso and flips their positions so that he lays on his back, staring up at her with surprise, awe, and hunger “Tonight is about your pleasure, my prince. Let me worship you. Let me bring you pleasure.”

She undulates her hips to emphasize her meaning, the moisture of her essence marking his skin as she slowly glides down his body. He hisses when her wet heat swirls around his cock, teasing with light, damp brushes. He bucks his hips up beneath her, but she anticipates him, moving so fast, yet so gracefully that she has the base of his shaft gripped in her fist and her mouth loosely wrapped around the head before his hips reconnect with the mattress below their bodies. She twirls her tongue around the crown, waiting for him to open his eyes, soaking in the look of ecstatic pain etched in the handsome planes of his face.

The unexpected satisfaction of having his cock so lovingly cradled in her mouth prompts him to throw his head back on a groan. Watching Emma pleasure herself was an agony unto itself that had him perilously close to orgasm; sinking into her body, even the shortest depth, has him struggling momentarily. When he finds his control again and opens his eyes, orbs of jade fire meet him from where they hover above his body. “I want to know everything—what you like, what you want more of. Don’t be afraid to tell me, my prince; indeed, I look forward to it.”

Killian does not bother holding back his cry of triumph, of bliss when she sucks him deeper into her mouth and throat. Neither of them needs words to know that he enjoys every second of being inside her, his groans and gasps saying all that language cannot; but he peppers the moment with bits of praise, sliding his hands through her golden hair to both encourage her and to better appreciate the view of his flesh disappearing into her body. Whenever his breath hitches in his throat, she repeats whatever motion prompted the reaction almost to the point of his climaxing; despite them not having indulged in this particular act too often, Emma instinctively understands when to draw back from the point of no return.

Again, and again, she surprises him, increases the erotic torture until he is early at a fever pitch, mindless with the pleasure she has so devotedly lavished upon him and desperate with the need to spill himself inside her, to brand her with his seed as she has branded him with her love. Though the word has not passed her lips, the power of it resonates in her every action, in her meticulous attention to his pleasure, to his desires. Finally, words become frantically necessary. “Stars, Emma! Let me come, please! Mercy, my wickedly perfect Star! Have mercy!”

At his begging, she takes him further, deeper into her throat and swallows rhythmically, mimicking the ripples of her sheath that send him spiraling into bliss. Killian, helpless to prevent it, shouts as she milks his cock, as his body submits to hers in wave after wave of release. He feels the siren call of sleep, the draining need to rest and rejuvenate his body, but he refuses to succumb to any seductive song save Emma’s. He drags her up his body and kisses her ferociously, drinking in the taste uniquely her own and the traces of his seed on her tongue. He plunders her mouth while his hands wander, one stopping at her breasts to fondle and tweak while the other unerringly finds her quim.

He groans, both at the salty sweetness of her mouth and the discovery that pleasuring him has affected her just as deeply; he plunges two fingers into her lush, dripping cunt, eager to reciprocate her lavish attentions. He wraps the one arm around her back, effortlessly rolling them and pinning her body beneath his while he continues to pillage her mouth. Slowly, yet with obvious intent, he kisses his way down her throat, her chest, her breasts—all while he continues thrusting his fingers in her now quivering heat. Finally, finally, he brings his mouth to her sex, making her tremble in earnest; he throws one of her legs over his shoulder and pins her hips to the bed with a possessive hand. Nothing could pull him away from rewarding such beautiful efforts to please with another orgasm. Nothing could sway him from making her scream over and over in ecstasy. Nothing could make him stop devoting his attention to commencing yet another glorious night of love-making—except what happens.

“Killian! Stars help me, but I love you.” Her words break free on a sob, leaving him absolutely stunned and speechless. He notes the sorrow on her face and the glistening in her eyes, but that the cry leaving her throat was broken and anguished, and that her tears do not spring from the same source of joy and hope as his feelings do, remains momentarily lost to him. She _loves_ him. All is right and perfect in the world.

“I am so sorry! I never meant… Feelings—Love!—has no place in our arrangement and I know that this is entirely unacceptable! The very thought must disgust you or at least offend your dignity, but I felt that dishonesty on my part, continued dishonesty, would only render a later revelation more painful to you and be dishonorable on my part. I shall not ever repeat the repellant sentiment, but neither shall I object should you wish to terminate our liaison, Your Highness. I am prepared for the consequences, and shall be ready to quit the Hall—”

“Emma!” Contrition and shame and anxiety mark her face, only to deepen when his interjection silences her. She casts her gaze downward and bites her lower lip, her whole being abjectly miserable in a way that astonishes and confounds him. He cups her cheek in his hand before gently urging her to look up at him. Her pained gaze finally catches upon his smiling countenance, slowly shifting to confusion and then to growing panic.

“Your feelings mean—your love means the world to me, Emma, and I honor them all. But I could never so abuse your affections as to be repulsed by them, because the plain truth of the matter is that I love you as well. And I want far, far more than our naïve, misguided arrangement could have ever given us. I want you to love me forever, and I want to cherish you until the Stars burn out! Marry me, Miss Emma Shepherd! Marry me.”

She releases the hands that had gripped hers as if burned and staggers to her feet, a strangled gasp leaving her mouth. He looks up, shocked to witness her face filling with horror and wild terror. He stands and reaches for her, but she shuffles backward before blindly searching for her robe and clutching it to her chest. Her mouth opens and closes, malformed words dying on her lips as she continues to haltingly walk toward the wall. Finally, she turns and dashes for the entrance to the secret passage.

“What is wrong, my love? Emma! Come back here.” His strides eat up the distance between them and he grabs her about the waist well before her outstretched hand can touch the door. She shrieks and recoils from his grasp, catching his off-guard with an elbow to the stomach. He doubles over, winded rather than injured, yet hurt all the same.

“Do not touch me again! And I will never marry you. Never!” With chilling finality she makes her escape, leaving a completely perplexed and decidedly heart-sore prince in her wake.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As promised, the next chapter. To the guest reviewer who brought up this issue: I understand how Emma's reaction may have come across as unexpected, but hopefully this chapter will provide the answer to your question; while honesty is an important part of their relationship, there is much that has been left unsaid between Emma and Killian. Not to mention that most real live couples hardly sit down and have completely honest and exhaustive conversations about everything important to them before they throw themselves into a relationship (let alone accounting for tangents in conversation). And yes, there is a bit of a time lapse between the last chapter and this one. Again, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing. Provided my health continues to improve, I should be posting chapters more regularly, and although I don't have a specific chapter/word count I am aiming for, we are about half way through the story as I have it planned. :)

****

To say that Emma and Killian have trouble sleeping after this encounter would be an understatement of the facts; but then, as neither manages to settle their thoughts and emotions enough to even consider seeking the hollow solace of a glaringly empty bed, it would be an overstatement as well.

* * *

With a little under an hour remaining until dinner Killian rides into the stable's courtyard with Fairfax hard at his heels, the older man and horse duo sweating and panting heavily after their exertions of the day and mad dash homeward. After a full day of Emma blatantly avoiding him he had sought solace in the hard labor of repairs yet to be completed on the dormitories, having Triton saddled long before sun-up and returning as late as possible without alerting his staff to the tension betwixt him and Sophia's governess this past week. The grinding, brutally physical work has provided Killian with a much-needed outlet for his frustrations and a focus for his wayward thoughts, yet it has also given him time to consider every possible angle to his current predicament and how, hopefully, to solve the problems which sparked this quarrel between them.

He knows that Emma will resist his efforts to speak with her, but loath as he is to utilize the disparity of rank and his status as her employer in order to gain an audience with her, he knows that it is the only card he has to play; her freedom means the world to him, yet he must stoop to taking it away from her if only to have the opportunity to explain and to restore peace of mind to them both. He sighs wearily as he makes his way to his rooms to wash up and dress appropriately, for he also knows that he will need to bare all in order to have even a fool's hope of convincing her of the truth and bridging the chasm her withdrawal has created. For whatever reason, Emma fears love; he accepts the fact and respects it, but potentially overcoming that fear will take great courage on his part—the courage to open his mind and his soul to her and to risk her continued rejection.

The meal passes in a desultory fashion for him, his anxiety robbing him of his normal conversational skills and enjoyment of the companionship of his most trusted servants. Though her behavior appears perfectly correct to one and all, Emma maintains a polite distance from him and almost imperceptibly alters the discourse of any comment upon any topic which the other diners broach which might lead to a direct interaction with Killian. Her consummate skill in deflecting and rebuffing his contributions to the general conversation fills him with a grudgingly acknowledged awe and admiration—yet one more proof to him that her mother was more than a mere farmer's wife and subtly trained her daughter to someday be prepared to grasp her birthright.

When the footmen clear the final course before dessert, he lays down his gambit and rises from his seat. "Please, all, remain in your seats. I have many letters and other affairs to attend to this evening which I cannot ignore a moment longer. Given the increasing chill in the weather, I do believe that tomorrow should be the last week's end where your underlings should be allowed to venture into the village; it would be folly to continue to allow such outings when winter storms could strike without warning. Please encourage your charges to take advantage of this final opportunity. Unfortunately, I must single out one of you to remain behind."

For the first time this evening, Killian captures Emma's undivided attention and moves to secure it. "Miss Shepherd. We have been unable to discuss Sophia's progress lately, so I would ask that you come and see me at two hours before midday. I expect a thorough accounting, and I would like for us to consider adjustments and additions to her curriculum. My apologies for impinging upon your rest and recreation, but I feel that it is imperative that we take the time now to set forth certain matters. Once again all, thank you for your diligence and hard work. Good evening."

He walks out with his head held high and counts it a victory that she did not openly protest or demur at his request, nor did she allow her doubtlessly pricked pride to reveal its pique. He does, however, continually beseech the Stars to dampen her righteous anger with him and give her a forgiving and receptive spirit on the morrow.

* * *

Emma had thought that she had been granted a reprieve over the last few days when Killian had absented himself from the house for most of the day; she doubted that his pride would have healed, but at least that he did not mean to dismiss her from his service for her crimes of loving him and rejecting him. Immediately after her flight from his bedchamber, she had begun packing her clothes in anticipation of the need to be gone at a moment's notice. A part of her had also been furious with him for not only confessing his own love (a fact which she increasingly believes to be true, in spite of her best efforts to convince herself that it is ludicrous and impossible), but for daring to command her hand in marriage that way. He knows her views upon the subject; their agreement had firmly stipulated that he provide her with sensual knowledge and experience only. No permanence was supposed to apply to their attachment, and no emotions were to be considered save practicality and convenience.

But then, somewhere along the way, life happened. Sophia had so bewitched and enchanted that Emma felt as if her life suddenly possessed meaning and purpose. She was _meant_ to be the vivacious girl's governess; she was _destined_ to fill the space left vacant by death because she too knew what it was to lose a mother's love. She could sympathize with Sophia in ways that no one else close to the princess could. She had never allowed herself to even dream of wishing to have a child, of yearning for the comfort and companionship of a husband… Those roles which other people take for granted as their due in life had long been consigned to the realm of fairy stories and legends for Emma. And then she saved Sophia, and her heart had soaked up the unexpectedly discovered hope like life-giving dew and had begun to awaken, blossom, and open…

For that flowering, Emma cannot help but be grateful to Killian, because in spite all of her fear and anger a part of her revels in the knowledge that her affections are returned. Yet she feels even more deeply and truly that love can only end in pain, in suffering, in misery. So, it is with clear mind and heavy heart that she arrives promptly in the study portion of the library as per Killian's request, her belongings packed and ready to be moved back to her cottage when the call to march should sound. Last night she had quietly bid her goodbyes to the sleeping Sophia and Francine; this morning had been spent cleaning and organizing the stillroom, ready to use items neatly labelled and placed within easy reach in their accustomed places so that the staff may find necessary tonics easily enough without her guidance.

When she presents herself at the appointed hour Killian does not move for several minutes, staring out the frost-edged window at the blanket of dead leaves covering the lawn and gardens outside. Were it not for the weighty thoughts and worries on each of their minds, the silence could have been termed peaceful and companionable. Emma laces her fingers, holding her hands near her waist in a reminder not to fidget. He continues to look at the autumnal scene, thumb of one hand repeatedly, absently brushing over his lower lip. The train of her thoughts, of following the same path of his thumb, startles her physically so that she feels the need to cover the action with movement; she sets her hands behind her back, right hand locked tight around her left wrist. More silence hangs between them before he finally, finally heaves a sigh.

"I apologize for my highhandedness, for commanding your presence here, but there are several things we must discuss, Emma. Indeed, there is something of great importance which you need to hear, which I have selfishly kept from you. My love—my affections for you aside, I should have confided the truth to you as soon as I suspected it." When he looks at her, her face is at first filled with nervousness—that he will immediately press his suit again, no doubt—and then with confusion at the unexpected direction his words have taken. He remains behind his desk, but faces forward and leans upon his arms to help communicate how serious and intent this conversation will be. He waves her forward and motions to one of the chairs before returning to his engaged pose, waiting for Emma to be seated before beginning.

"From the very first moment I saw you, Emma, I believed that you were not quite what you seemed. I never once doubted your sincerity, but rather I doubted the story you had been lead to believe all of your life and which you once shared with me. Tell me, Emma, do you know where your parents came from?"

The question startles her, entirely unanticipated in its drift and nature. "I—I suppose I never thought about it. We are born into this world and we move very little, unless our Stars have greater fates in mind for us. What exactly are you implying? My lord."

He flinches at her question and at the honorific, but refuses to let his discomfort distract him. She deserves the truth, all of it. "I am implying—nay, I am stating that I believe that your parents were both more important and more obscure than they pretended to be."

He opens one of the many drawers on his desk and places a pile of documents upon the blotter; the pages are loosely bound together by a ribbon—Emma recognizes it as yet another missing one of her own—as none of them are perfectly uniform with the others, many pieces yellowed with age or possessing rough, uneven edges. Killian places a hand gently, reverently atop the sheaf before passing it over the desk and placing it within her reach. "This is my evidence, my proof if you will, of who—I believe—you truly are, Emma Shepherd. These disparate journals, letters, and deeds form a narrative. I encourage you to read them at your leisure, but let me share the larger story with you."

As if the power of the words cannot be contained any longer, Killian stands and begins to pace as he speaks. "Nigh on thirty years ago, a little bit of a scandal passed over the borders from the White Kingdom and made its way into the ears of our nobles. Quite the romantic and foolish little drama such as titillates and delights the often bored and restless courtiers—so long as none of their children are named or suspected—it was bandied about that a young woman, the daughter of a duke and sole heiress to one of the kingdom's greatest duchies, had quite openly fallen in love with a commoner. I hesitate to bring up such a contentious topic right at this moment, but it is vital to the story. I believe I have told you just how rare it is for someone like this young heiress, someone very much like me, to be allowed to fall in love and to marry for love.

"Yet, despite all her father's attempts to separate the young lovers and in spite of a binding betrothal to another man made before their king many years before, the little duchess refused to marry anyone except her young lover—a man, born a farmer, but raised to a knighthood and place of stewardship in her father's household. Now, this would not have been such a scandal here and now, as we accept into the nobility any man or woman determined enough to pledge themselves to knightly service and accord them great honor on behalf of their sacrifices, but the duke belonged to an older generation and refused to countenance the new match. In his anger, he banished his daughter to a manor on one of his out of the way estates, hoping that time and distance would break the bond. He also dismissed the young knight from service and threatened to ruin any lord who would accept the man into their mesne*.

"More than a year passed, barely long enough for the gossip to have run its course here, when new information arrived at the speed of lightning and with the force of terrible thunder. There are many theories, and no one knows for certain precisely what happened, but the heiress vanished one night without a trace. According to reports sent to my father by the duke and by his sovereign, there was no rescue attempt thwarted, no fight—she simply was in her bedroom one night and gone the next morning. The duke and the king of the White Kingdom had spared no expense in trying to locate the pair within their borders—for the young man was also missing—but they made it perfectly clear that they would wage war or worse in order to reclaim the lady. It is even rumored that the knight's aged parents were tortured nigh unto death, but they never changed their story, that they had not seen their son since the single night after the duke had dismissed him.

"Thus, the duchess and the knight disappeared, effectively passing into myth and legend, fueling the romantic dreams of noble and common alike as well as serving as a dire warning of the consequences of crossing evil men with power. But what you have in your hands proves that their story did not end there. According to the chronicles of this kingdom, my father, mother, and brother granted an audience to a young couple nearly six months after the rumored disappearance of the heiress and her knight. The chronicler was dismissed, and thus not present for the meeting, but my brother was; copies of pages from his journal are included there and detail the entirety. It is a crime to alter or destroy any documents produced by members of the Royal family, as they are considered property of the State, so please do not ask how I came to possess them—your ignorance on the matter will keep you safe.

"But in brief, the young woman was pregnant, and thus the couple was desperate for shelter and a safe haven. My mother, disgusted by the behavior of the girl's father and on account of her friendship with the current and former duchesses, provided the heiress and her knight with the deed to a small farm. You will no doubt have seen the actual deed, as the property granted to them is now yours. The chronicle records the birth of a girl-child to the couple, nearly 29 years ago to the day, as does my father's personal journal from the time. I know that my mother's probably did as well, but after her death my father ordered all of her effects—including letters and papers—to be burned; I do know, however, that she did not dare send a message to her friend the present duchess, the young heiress' stepmother, for fear that the duke or the king would intercept it."

Killian finally dares to look at her to see what effect his story has had; tears fill her eyes, but do not fall, as she stares far off into the distance. Sorrow. Disbelief. Confusion. Anger. Fear. They all share a place in her expression. He can bear the physical and emotional gulf between them no longer and he dares to kneel at her feet, to smoothly remove the pages from her lax grip, and to take her hands in his own. The chill of her skin shocks him into gently rubbing her knuckles with his thumb, carefully coaxing her back from wherever or whenever her mind has wandered. When Emma finally looks at him with awareness and comprehension, he releases the breath he did not realize he was holding.

"When you first came to my house, when I so arrogantly called you here in order to thank you instead of coming to you and kneeling at your feet in gratitude as I do now—the first conscious thought in my head, aside from thinking you a Star dropped from the heavens to my doorstep, was that your dress looked almost exactly like one worn by my mother in one of her portraits. I do not have a copy here at present to show you, but it is a family sitting that used to hang in our private apartments—one of many that were banished to gather old and dust in the attic upon mother's death. Ironically, Liam himself will be bringing it with him whenever he finally arrives. He knows only that I dearly love that painting and wish to display it here in my home."

"Killian—."

"Please, Emma. Let me finish; let me say what needs to be said aloud. The dress you wore, the one which you have saved and cherished for all of these years is the exact same as the one in my family portrait. Your mother and father would have fled her place of exile and captivity with little thought to clothes and finery, and my mother was so giving and compassionate that she would have thought to provide a wandering, bereft lady with some dresses befitting her true station. But even if the dress can be dismissed as a coincidence, _you_ my dear Emma cannot. You own the exact piece of property deeded to the missing heiress and her husband; you walk and talk like a woman born to all the refinements and luxuries of life; you even know how to play an instrument, one which takes years with the leisure to practice to master! An instrument that you instinctively recognized and remembered how to play, though you had never seen it in its true form!

"Your knowledge of herbs and simples—much of which can only be acquired as an apothecary's apprentice or as part of the education concerning the duties of the lady of the manor. You, Emma. I believe you are the missing heiress, and it is my duty and will be my privilege to assist you in reclaiming your birthright. But before I do this, I must once more ask for your forgiveness; this time for not speaking sooner and thereby behaving dishonestly and concealing the truth from you. At first, I told myself that I simply wished to be absolutely certain, but that is a lie. The truth is that I wanted to keep you all to myself; once you claim your inheritance, you will be a great landholder in your own right and will need to travel to your duchy to ensure its continued care and proper maintenance. I know precisely what duty and honor will demand of you, what you will demand of yourself, and I selfishly wanted to keep you with me always. I—."

"No." Her emphatic whisper breaks the flow of his argument with all the force of a boulder plunged into a placid lake.

"Emma… What—?"

She pulls her hands away from his but places them gently on either side of his face, mirth evident in her dancing eyes and her laughing cadence, neither of which quite conceals the nervous anxiety and shocked denial. "No, I cannot forgive you because there is nothing to forgive. Killian, I know that you love me; as delightfully fanciful and strange as that is, I truly believe that you love me. And I love you, so very much that at times it hurts to breathe. But it is because I love you that I cannot let you continue to dupe yourself this way. I simply cannot be a duchess! Nothing could be more preposterous!"

Her dismissive amusement shocks him to his very core, so much so that he almost misses her declaration. Almost. "You _are_ a duchess, Emma. I believe it with all my heart and soul. Are not these papers and my word proof enough?"

She sighs, thumbs tracing his cheek lovingly and expression full of frustrated affection. "Proof enough of the lengths you will go to in order to keep me with you, to convince myself and others of the rightness of your mad scheme to marry me… But I cannot let my own selfishness elect my course of action. I love you, my Killian, my prince, but I cannot marry you. And because I cannot marry you, you must needs marry another in order to secure the succession. I do not, nor cannot hate you or despise you for doing what you must; as a prince, you are wedded to your people. Whatever love you feel for me should not exceed the love and care you have for your kingdom. That is the way of things, the way of power and responsibility. But to continue on as we are? Killian, it would break me to stand by and watch as you select another to be your helpmate. For my heart's sake, at least, I cannot remain."

He cups her face gently in return, cradling her reverently with his hands as his eyes pierce hers, speaking eloquently in the heat of his gaze. "I cannot lie and claim that you possess my whole heart, Emma, but that does not mean that I care little or nothing for you. I love my daughter; I love my brother; I love and care for the people whose lives depend upon me; and I love you. I love you so much that the thought of a life spent without you by my side as my partner and equal torments me, and the idea of anyone else taking what is meant for you alone fills me with horror and loathing. No one else could possibly be the wife and queen that you could be. If you will not be my wife, then I refuse to marry. I want your happiness above all others, but I cannot neglect my own either by setting another in your place."

Her eyes momentarily fill with such inexpressible joy that Killian hopes that he has finally convinced her of his truth and sincerity; but that happiness quickly dims and she rises in agitated panic and dismay, pacing and wringing her hands in order to keep him physically distant. "But you must! You are a prince, Killian, and the council has commanded even the king, your own brother, to marry and produce an heir if he can! You must produce more legitimate heirs, which means you must marry; and the council will not accept our marriage. By rights, you should marry a princess, and no matter what you have come to believe, I am no one."

"I believe—" He reaches for her hands once more, but she pulls back too quickly and slips through his fingers.

"Yes, _you_ may. As a prince or as king you can believe that the sky is green and the grass is red, and I doubt many would be wise enough or foolish enough to contradict. But who else will believe such an outlandish tale? You say you have proof, but what member of the council or which of your nobles will accept its veracity, if it is to their advantage to disbelieve? And even if it were all true, what then? Can blood alone make me into a lady, when all of my life I have labored and tended to just one farm? When I have travelled no further than ten miles from my simple cottage and worked the soil all on my own? I cannot possibly learn how to be a princess! No matter how much joy and pride I would have in being _your_ princess and your wife, I cannot bring strife and enmity between you and your people. Loving me, marrying me, will only bring you grief and misery, and I love you too much to allow you to suffer when it is in my power to do otherwise."

Exasperated and exhausted, he finally catches her by one arm, pulling her close and securing his grip on her so that she has no choice but to face him. Impatiently, but tenderly, he tips her chin up and stays silent until she capitulates and looks him in the eye. She nearly melts at the intense hunger and longing which lie naked in his expression. "Am I not already suffering enough without you? Does your own suffering by denial bring you joy and comfort? Does perpetual chastity hold such an appeal for you?"

He releases her chin when she tugs it away, but he keeps his grasp upon her arm so that she cannot fully escape. Her response, when it comes, is directed toward his boots and comes out a low and broken sound. "Love _is_ suffering. Love is pain and loneliness."

"If that were true, then how did your love and your presence breathe new life into this house? Stars know I did the best I could, but my family? —Sophia and I were missing something until you arrived and whisked her to safety; and that something was missing from the first. _You_ were missing, Emma. _You_ cannot be replaced. This is your home. You, me, and Sophia belong together in a way that we never belonged before; together, _we three_ are a family, a home."

"Are we, Killian? I have forgotten what it is to have a home. I lived in that cottage for 28 years, but it ceased to be a home long ago." The rage and hurt and resentment in her voice shreds his heart and his hard tried patience. He folds her into his arms and tenderly strokes her hair, silently willing her to give up her stubborn refusal to listen. He knew that he would need to unburden himself of secrets, but now that the moment of truth arrives, he still finds himself trembling in an agony of dread. He slowly collapses into the chair, dragging her slightly resisting body with him and seating her in his lap. He continues to stroke his hand over her hair as he tries to gather his thoughts and his courage.

"We _are_ family, Emma; far more than anything I had with Milah." She stills in his arms, a shocked breath falling in the echoing, heavy silence of his statement. Once more, he tilts her chin up so that he can look into her eyes as he shares his own heartache. "I avoided speaking of this because I was afraid—terrified that if you knew the truth, it might change how you saw me. But in not sharing it with you, I think we created a space for mistrust and misunderstanding. I never wanted any secrets between us, please believe that, my darling. But if you care to listen, I am ready to tell you the story of my marriage, so you can judge matters for yourself with the facts fully before you."

Killian waits for her nod of assent and kisses her forehead in thanks for her willingness to hear him out, drawing strength from her warm, comforting presence as his mind's eye looks back across the years. "Milah's mother was a lady of small standing in the kingdom and would have remained obscure had she not formed a friendship with my mother in their youth. After she became queen, my mother needed noble attendants to serve in her privy chamber—an ancient, but necessary precaution for a monarch who needs to keep an eye on those who might threaten his or her crown. My mother allowed a few council appointments, but Lady Aeinor served as her chief lady in waiting from the day of her wedding until the day she died. As part of her privileges, she was allowed to keep her daughter at court with her, meaning Milah was practically raised in the royal nursery alongside Liam and then myself.

"I cannot recall a time when I did not "love" Milah, but it was ultimately a childish, naïve attachment. When my mother passed, father banished anything and everyone who reminded him of her, including Lady Aeinor and by extension Milah. It would be years before I saw her again, and like a child I assumed that she would become a better version of her younger self as she aged.

"One day, after years of silence on her part, she smuggled a letter to me, as she put it: a desperate plea for help. Among Lady Aeinor's few faults was in choosing Milah's father, Lord Andre Tristis, as a husband. He was a rogue and a gambler, and long exile from the court had left him a bitter, vindictive man; he expected to live a life of ease, one where he could ride his wife's skirts to some position of power and influence, but that all came crashing down upon his head when my mother died. Apparently, so the letter went, he had promised something to another lord many years before, and the man's son and heir was cashing in the favor.

"To this day I don't even know what was promised or when, but Milah's letter—travel worn and tear stained—indicated that their lands were forfeit and that she would be married off to this stranger unless I or my father intervened. What I could not know is that she had sent the same letter to my brother; my father's spymaster had intercepted it—because messages sent to the heir needed to be vetted by the king or council—and destroyed it per my father's orders. They had no cause to believe that she would appeal to me as she and Liam had been much closer in age and attachment in our younger days, and security around the "spare" was not as strict at the time.

"I knew that my father would not lift a hand to save her, as he had little love for their family—I did not understand the cause of the rancor and contempt he held for them until later, but it was a known fact all the same. Not only did I love Milah, but her message stroked my vanity—she wrote so beseechingly, believing that I was a knight capable of relieving a damsel in distress of all her troubles woes; her plight and my upbringing ensured that I could not find it in me to willfully let a lady down, and so her gallant savior I would be. I was so proud to be the hero that she needed and, with the honest eyes of a much older man, glad of the opportunity to rebel, to shake off my father's yoke.

"I arrived, naturally, _just_ in time to save Milah from an unwanted marriage. I paid off the lordling and restored her family lands to her parents, spurning all offers of repayment and redress. And, under the influence of her father's careful manipulations and more brandy than I could tolerate, I humbly asked for her hand in marriage. I was not yet betrothed and there were few ladies of sufficient rank that were unwed at the time; Lord Andre chose his time and his bait quite carefully indeed and succeeded in convincing me that the whole grand plan was of my own devising. The only impediment was Milah herself.

"I will do her the honor of acknowledging her honesty—from the first, she had quite kindly told me that her affection for me was from fond remembrances of our shared childhood and that her heart belonged to another, someone unsuitable from whom she had been tragically separated, she told me. I promised her that I had enough love for the both of us, that I would be patient in winning her heart, and that some couples began with less goodwill between them than we possessed, etc. Unbeknownst to me, her father encouraged what he saw as her own ploy to increase my ardor for her, but threatened to disown her if she refused me out of hand. His daughter's marriage to the prince would give him adequate scope for his need to feel important and he would not be thwarted in his return to "power".

"We rode into the capital in style, drawing crowds as we went. Through Lord Andre's aegis, we arrived precisely when the court would be in session and the courtiers numerous enough to make the biggest scene imaginable. My father's face grew darker and darker as I outlined the suitableness of the match, the dearth of other foreign and domestic candidates, and—my own personal _coup de grace,_ which nearly caused the old schemer a heart fit—my willingness to be struck from the succession in order to secure my happiness in marriage. There was a fraught, private meeting with my father, his advisors, and my brother, but ultimately I had my way. Milah and I were married, and I had the hope of earning her love and devotion.

"But life as Princess Milah held far more appeal for her than I could have realized it would. For all that my father might remarry, unlikely in the extreme, and my brother might at any moment consummate his betrothal with his intended, she became the first lady of the kingdom and everyone sought her attention accordingly. Her behavior in public was above reproach, and I refuse to paint the dead in unflattering hues, but she devoted her time and energy to everything and everyone save me. My hopes for being loved in return died very slowly, Emma; even the announcement of her pregnancy did not stop her socializing nor bring us any closer. I felt entirely alone until the day Sophia was born. And then, within a year, Milah was gone."

Killian pauses in his recitation, eyes yet hazy and distant as he relives the past; Emma's eyes, long since overflowing with tears, gaze at him in awe, compassion, and understanding. When he turns back to look at her, that expression fills his heart once more with hope. He caresses her cheeks, fingers wiping away the salty trails of her sympathy.

"You are right, Emma. Love _is_ pain. Love takes a piece of our soul, a piece of our very being and entrusts it to another. And such a trust, no matter how earnestly received and entered into, creates the potential for sorrow. Because I love my brother, I will experience pain when he dies; because I love Sophia, it will grieve me to see her grow into a young woman one day and watch her fall in love. Despite all the grief my feelings for her cost me, I loved Milah until the day she died; and a part of me shall always love her, not the least because of the daughter with whom she blessed me.

"I love you, my darling Emma, whether you choose to have me or not. But _you_ _alone_ have the power to make me happy in that precious love, or to make me suffer. Believe me when I say that my love for you is just as selfish as your love for me; I know what is expected of me as a prince and my brother's heir, but I have known a marriage lacking in love and I refuse to enter into another one."

He kisses her forehead gently. "I won't press you on this now, but know this, Emma Shepherd: I want you in my bed, in my arms, wherever you will let me have you, until this lifetime shall pass away and beyond. I want to know you, to share all of your burdens and your triumphs, and I will do my best to change your mind. Eventually, but not now, darling. Now I want to know something, if you are willing… You said that you do not know what a home is—will you tell me why? Will you share why the very name of love, of marriage has you trembling in terror? I vow that I will not renew my suit now, but will you please explain why you said no?"

Not once does Emma doubt the aching honesty of a single word—his soul, clearly perceptible behind his eyes, stands absolutely naked and vulnerable in the light of truth. Did she not love his as deeply as she does, yet would she shed enough tears to drown the world for the terrible solitude she recognizes in him—an isolation like the one she lived in and experienced for fifteen years. An epiphany strikes her so hard she gasps for breath: ever since coming to live at Thistledown, she has not felt unwanted or unneeded, or like a burden; without plan or intent, she has not once been or believed herself to be disconnected, solitary. This _belonging_ , this purpose and fulfillment are what she will forfeit should she turn away from love forever.

The sheer magnitude of her near folly astounds her, and she can do nothing except return his faith and trust in her in equal measure. Her voice trembles softly at first, and though her words never come much louder than a whisper, they gain strength and certainty as she goes. "When I was young, I never doubted that my parents loved me; I was as secure in their affections as any child could be. But as time passed, I came to believe that there was something wrong with us—something wrong with me. I was never allowed to enter the village alone, never encouraged to form friendships or bonds with anyone other than my parents; curiosity about life in general was accepted and sated while we three were together, but condemned when we were surrounded by strangers.

"And then the king's summons arrived, calling my father and other men of the village to arms to serve in the border disputes. I remember that the farewells between my parents were particularly bitter on my mother's part. She loved him with so much of her being that she could not bear to be separated from him—I cannot even recall a single night where he spent it away from her side until the day he left for training. He bore the trial with patience and courage, entreating me to care for her whilst he could not; I was a child of thirteen, not yet fully a woman, but I was to be the one to care for her… I did not know, but I might have suspected even then, that my mother simply could not and did not feel for me with the same intensity at which she adored him.

"However, I learned that lesson all too well over the next five years after word of his death came. She kept me even closer by her side, more constrained than ever before. I felt in my heart that she clung to me, not as her daughter, but as a remnant and keepsake of my father. It took her a long time to shrink and fade, but she died the day that the official notice of his death was delivered to our doorstep. I made certain she bathed and ate and clothed herself; we worked the land together, but I could only trust her with the simpler tasks. She hardly talked and she never smiled again, not until the day she finally passed and her last breath left her body."

Emma sniffles and rubs at her tears with the back of her hand before looking up at Killian with watery eyes. "Until my father's death, I had dreamed of one day having a love like theirs, despite whatever flaws of mine might have prevented it. After, I daily experienced at firsthand how destructive and horrifying love could be if not checked properly. I did not mind my loneliness so much until I sat in this very room and watched you and Sophia together; I wondered what defects and blemishes in myself had caused me to be so unlovable, had stirred up such antipathy in my mother's heart that she could not hold me to her as you held your daughter. Why could she not have lived for me? How could she have left me?"

Killian pulls her closer and cradles her head to his chest as she keens and sobs, for the first time releasing the thoughts and emotions which she could never bring herself to articulate until this very moment. He hushes her and runs his fingers through her hair, much as he has done for a hurting and weeping Sophia, casting his eyes up to the Stars in frustration and anger—how could they have allowed Emma's suffering? How could a mother abandon her innocent, friendless daughter to the vicious care and tender caprice of the world? He has asked the same question many times before, but never did he think to ask here and now and behalf of this woman in his arms—this bent yet unbroken, fierce, strong woman who fills a hole in his soul. Surely, the Stars could not be so **cruel**!

Yet on the heels of this thought, an awful, inescapable truth slams into his mind and shakes him to the center of his being: Stars above, _he_ _ **knew**_! His _father—_ in all his mad and terrifying grief he had been lucid to the very end of his life and that man forgot _nothing_. He had known—he had _had_ to have known all along _exactly_ where the missing duchess lived, would have paid for more than one spy to both ensure her safety and to report back upon every facet of her life. It would be bad politics to do otherwise when harboring a refuge from another kingdom. Which means that _he had known_ that the only thing standing in the way of any scheme to marry her off and secure the title and lands was the life of one simple, disposable, forgettable farmer. His father had known precisely what would happen from the moment he sent out his summons, and accidents on the training grounds or the field of battle were easy enough to arrange.

Another painful thought chills him to his very marrow—did _Liam_ know what their father had known? _Does_ he know now? Has he known, from the very first letter? Has he maneuvered Emma into his household for this very purpose? Killian discards that thought immediately, ashamed of himself for having entertained it for even a second. Whatever Liam's motives and machinations, Emma herself does not believe that her parentage is any more exalted than it seems; she is innocent—nay! —a victim in his father's schemes. May the Stars have mercy on him, and on his brother should Liam have any foreknowledge of her parents' tragic deaths! More than ever, his life and honor seemed destined, fated to belong to her.

He cups her face in between his palms and brushes soft kisses against her wet cheeks, her dewy eyelids, silently affirming his love and adoration in every touch. She pants harshly, breaths coming in halted gasps as she tries valiantly to calm herself. The horrible solitude of her past, the magnitude of her disloyal thoughts about her parents' love, become mere echoes which no longer possess the power of wounding; being held in Killian's arms, being surrounded by his warmth and being cherished by his lips, washes away the present hurts and soothes a healing balm upon her heart, finally purged of the poison which had festered unchecked for so many years. Her fears are not suddenly and irrevocably vanquished, but the thought of leaving him can no longer be countenanced. For good or ill, come bliss or blight, Emma refuses to live without his love as the constant of her every waking and dreaming moment. And no words could adequately communicate her resolve where her actions will speak just as eloquently.

There will need to be more conversation in order to fully mend the bridge betwixt them, but the need to physically reinforce and reignite their bond overrides the rational mind. Instead of landing chastely upon her brow, she moves so that his next kiss meets her lips. And the next, and the next. Her hands, which had pliantly and passively clung about his neck, now wander an aggressive path meant to arouse: one diving into his hair and scratching his scalp, and the other making speedy progress unwinding the knot of his cravat, opening his waistcoat, and unbuttoning his shirt to seek hot skin. His patient tenderness and gentle handling of her quickly rouses her impatience and ardor. She tugs fiercely upon his silken strands and then presses her advantage in the kiss when he moans in pleasure, invading his mouth with the warm, thrusting assault of her tongue.

Her desire for him, reaffirmed in such spectacular fashion, quickly expunges any gentlemanly thoughts from his mind, and he swiftly moves to help her dispense with unnecessary garments. Sense would tell him that the library is far too public, far too open for a dalliance, but their combined need has already reached a fever pitch and cannot be denied. Her skirts are pulled up so that she can move to straddle him and then held aside to prevent their impeding the joining. Killian whimpers the instant her hand wraps around his erection, the same moment that his fingers bury themselves in her ripe, ready quim. Emma hisses, riding those long, elegant fingers as she strokes his cock, torturing them both decadently and brazenly.

But the urgent necessity to consummate, to celebrate their connection anew, whips their wanting higher. They share the same gasped breath when Emma guides him to her entrance and slowly impales her dripping sex upon his. The exquisite agony of the moment suspends itself—time and hearts shuddering to a blissful, ecstatic halt at the sheer perfection of it all. Yet, like all such fleeting interludes, the seconds recommence their march, and the overriding urge to seek fulfillment crashes back upon the lovers with all the force of the incoming tide striking the sands. Killian plants his feet firmly, and then thrusts up to bury himself further in her scalding depths, slowly receding and dragging against the walls of her rippling cunt before plunging back in.

He pistons relentlessly, wrenching a cry from Emma at each powerful, purposeful drive, and while his kisses to her chin and throat share the same aim and intent, they are soft and reverent, as if strategically applied to breaching and shattering her resistance with means both foul and fair. He whispers wicked endearments that have her practically vibrating in anticipation of her release. Lost to the wild, erotic rhythm they both pant and shout each other's name at their simultaneous, soaring climax. But rather than cool the lust riding furiously through their blood, desire pricks harder and anchors itself deeper under their skin, leaving them violently unsated and unsatisfied.

Killian lifts her effortlessly from his lap, pinning her to the nearby chaise and kneeling at her feet in smooth succession. He dives in and begins to devour her, kissing and licking and sucking at the lush pink flesh on display, eagerly lapping up their combined releases. Emma moans and thrashes, but his arms and hands fix her in place, so that she may writhe and squirm but may not escape his sensual onslaught. He burrows his tongue deep, the sinuous, flexible muscle curling and contorting itself into every crevice, seeking each deliciously remembered spot which will yield it a carnal feast. The pressure of his thumb upon her still sensitive bud causes her whole body to shudder and shiver with aftershocks of her previous and foreshocks of her impending orgasm. Twice she explodes, twice he moans in abject victory and arrogant surrender when he succeeds in causing her pleasure and milking it from her quim.

Wordlessly, she reaches for him after he brings her down from the heights of bliss, beseeching him not to send her out to the Stars without him again. He stands, grabs her hands and helps her to her feet; yet she is not on them for more than the barest of moments. He stalks forward with her loosely clinging to him, quickly pressing her back against the closest shelf. He curses her skirts once more as he reaches under them, wrapping his hands around the backs of her thighs and lifting her—arms wrapped under her derriere while she slips her legs more securely about his waist. He holds her tightly, body pressing her against the hard wood as he lines up his cock for her, allowing the force of her falling weight to plunge him in fully.

Emma gasps, reaching behind her for something to hold onto, dislodging several thick and aging volumes before bracing her hand against a corner of the shelf. She has no idea how he maintains his momentum, the furious force of every advance and retreat, let alone how he can keep up the flow of his words, his continuous crooning of promises, nonsense, and vows which pull her further under his spell. The brutal power of their coupling, far from frightening her with its intensity, fuels her burning need for him and, for a moment, makes her forget every single hurdle which stands between them and ultimate happiness. There is little finesse in his motions, but the intensity of their connection and his ceaseless attention to her every expression and the promptings of her body allows him to have her clenching furiously around him in what feels like seconds.

Emma feels that she must be losing her mind to the pleasure, for it takes her longer than normal to recover her sense. When she does, she finds herself draped across several cushions on the floor before the fireplace, cool air and Killian's hands caressing the exposed flesh of her arse, her thighs, and, with the lightest and most tender of brushes, her still tremoring sex. As if completely in tune with her—heart, mind, body, and soul—he begins touching with the intent to arouse as soon as she comes back to herself, and before too long he sheathes himself inside her once more. He slips an arm around her waist to adjust the angle, striking her as deeply as possible; she can tell that he is holding back, fearful of hurting her, so she rocks back and grinds her hips against his on his next stroke.

A low growl of warning reaches her ears, but she refuses to be cowed or to do anything except surrender to him entirely. She repeats the motion, forcing his cock to reach the very end of her, her body speaking to his unequivocally. His slow, but powerful drives gain speed quickly. Emma knocks one of the cushions away from her head, pressing it and her shoulders to the ground and spreading her arms out ahead of her—her pose a display of utter abjection that inspires her lover to even greater exertion designed to bring her pleasure and satisfaction.

His creative ingenuity and stamina appear limitless in his efforts to sate their primal desires, their frenzied urge to reconnect. After forcing a further three orgasms from her body and after having her once more astride him, pressed against the chilled windows, and perched atop his desk, Killian finally relents and spills himself a second time into her willing, welcoming quim. Together, they manage to sprawl across the chaise, bodies remaining as entwined as humanly possible whilst mostly clothed, savoring the post-coital blush and gently caressing each other's still heated skin. It takes the soft, yet unmistakable sounds of the household returning from the day's visit to the village to rouse the lovers from their contented, impromptu bed. Emma laughs lightly at his surprisingly good attempt to make her hair presentable—his own being a complete loss—before they separate with a languorous, yearning kiss and a promise to see each other at dinner. And then again for dessert.

* * *

The spy does not breathe easy until he makes it to his own attic room; he had heard all and then whisked himself away as speedily and as quietly as possible, once his two targets were fully and obliviously engaged with one another. Finally, he will prove his worth to his masters! But the encroaching storms, the punishing cold of winter may prove too great an obstacle to overcome. Should he fly and risk discovery? Should he remain and continue to observe the Prince and his family as ordered? Each option presents its own hazards and challenges, its own peril of displeasing his employers. He must decide quickly, for either path will require that he leave the manor—to deliver his information personally, or to post a letter. In the absence of more detailed instructions, he chooses the safest course: quickly committing ink to page and sanding it to seal in the words upon which so many fates hinge. He pours hot wax to close the parchment, making a light impression with the signet provided, hastens into his warmer clothes, and sets off for the village on horseback.

_My Lady,_

_I dare not risk consigning much to paper, but I must inform you of what my own eyes have just confirmed. Your worries upon a certain subject have not only proved themselves to be well-founded, but the threat to your most noble intentions may be—indeed,_ _is_ _! —far greater than you could possibly have imagined; in truth, your suspicions are not too large and your anxiety_ _cannot_ _be soothed or diminished by words of comfort and cheer, for they would be but false harbingers. The case is most dire and desperate; care and caution will be needed in order to bring a successful conclusion to your fond wish, but you must prepare the iron and strike whilst it is hot and ready._

_In haste, your devoted servant._

*A Mesne is a medieval term for a landowner's band of household knights, squires, and men at arms. Usually comprised of young relatives and children from other landed and titled families, the mesne was a classroom and an apprenticeship experience that thought young men to become fighters and leaders; once a young man was knighted, he was officially considered a man with all the rights and responsibilities of adulthood. Members of the mesne sometimes established themselves as tactical and political counsellors for their sworn lord, but mainly acted as bodyguards and a military unit if the landowners' king called them to perform feudal service in war.*


	28. Chapter 28

By the time an exuberant Sophia rounds the corner and dashes into the library, Killian and Emma sit on separate chairs with as small a distance between them as might be appropriately expected for two adults engaged in a debate on the relative merits of different courses of curriculum. Despite the distractions of rearranging the normal harvest schedule and scrambling to ensure that all on his lands are as prepared as possible, Killian has paid quite a bit of attention to his daughter’s progress thus far and had in fact been working on a program of study to give her a more structured and advanced, yet not too strenuous beginning to her formal education; thus, his request to speak with Emma regarding her student had been delivered in earnest. Though young as she is, like any child born into the royal family, Sophia carries the burden of the peoples’ needs and expectations upon her shoulders; the father in him would much rather give her a protected, innocent childhood, but the heir to the throne cannot afford to delay the training of his immediate heir any longer. If Liam had had his way and they lived in the Capital, Sophia would have been making public appearances in an official capacity as the royal representative before she could walk or speak.

But such weighty considerations vanish with their object’s glowing presence. Her childish enthusiasm, cold-pinked cheeks, giggling, and running leap into her father’s arms banish the serious, forthright conversation about balancing duty and responsibility with personal feelings. Emma smiles at the sight, her heart filling with a love and affection entirely accepted and embraced in full measure for the first time. The passion, which had so recently permeated the air, not abating a whit, but rather shifting itself to the back of the mind to accommodate another facet, another aspect of the joyous connection that lives and breathes between her and the ones she adores. Sophia bounces down from Killian’s lap and then pounces upon Emma, sharing her attention equally between the adults.

“Papa! Miss Emma! You _missed_ it! It’s _snowing_!!” She grabs a hand apiece and attempts to drag them—awkwardly forcing them into a face to face proximity which would surely scandalize anyone who would have witnessed it, and which caused a rosy blush of remembrance at how much closer they had been less than an hour before—to the window to confirm her announcement. They untangle themselves quickly, however, as the implications hit them immediately. Winter has indeed arrived.

“We were in the market, and Francine was looking at the fabrics. I think she is going to make me a dress for the Mid-Winter Festival because she kept lowering her voice when talking with Madame Herr, which she _always_ does when she wants to keep a _secret_. And then a group of boys ran through the square shrieking and yelling because the Elders promised a coin to the first to bring word of a storm or snow and they all were fighting it out as they ran to see who would get there first. But they were too late because it was Papa’s clerk Henri who first saw it falling and he had gone straight to find Mr. Fairfax who was with the Mayor and wanted to gather up all the servants and me and Francine and get us all back home. I wish I could have stayed to play in the snow, but everyone said that it could turn into a real storm before we knew it and I knew that you would have wanted me to listen. So I did.”

Her recitation of events, while charming and easily projecting a vivid picture in the minds of the adults, fills them with a belated sense of anxiety as well as a present concern over the welfare of the household and the villagers. However, their fears prove mostly unfounded when they look out the window—the grounds are just barely brushed with a tint of frost as the snow falls soft, lazy, and thin. They turn to her with relieved laughter, allowing their anxiety a much needed outlet in their combined mirth.

Killian scoops up his daughter into his arms and holds her tight. “Why you little puckish sprite! We thought it a proper blizzard with the way you carried on! Do you not know ‘tis bad form to frighten your old Papa and your governess so? You will be giving us gray hairs next! Poor manners at the least—what say you to such unrefined behavior, Miss Shepherd? How shall we best recompense my little scamp for this?”

Emma helplessly grins back, unable to not respond to the light and joy in his eyes and the brightness of Sophia’s own impish smile. She coughs lightly before settling her features into a mock sternness that, should a person not know the depth of kindness and gentleness of her true self, would cause more than a few of Liam’s foppish courtiers and the hardened veterans of the Council to quail in terror at her look of displeasure. “I believe the most severe of punishments is in order, your Highness… the Rack it must be!”

At the imperiousness of her pronouncement—he cannot help but marvel at the innate note of command in her voice, even in play and jest—he grins and tucks his chin close to his daughter’s neck. “Right you are! Commence with the torture!”

Sophia squeals when his whiskers run against her baby-fine skin and his fingers gently dig into her ticklish sides. Her giggles peal and echo brightly and she shrieks helplessly, gasping for breath as she vainly attempts to push him away. “Nooo! Save me, Miss Emma! Save me!”

“But I am simply one lone knight, and you are in the clutches of a terrible dragon, My Lady!” Emma dramatically cringes and withdraws in fear, lightly laughing at the terrific roar Killian lets loose in the spirit of the game. His eyes twinkle merrily at her before he ducks his chin once more to torment his victim, growling low and long.

“Puh-puh- _pleeease_!” Her breathlessness increasing with every renewed attack, she holds out her arms beseechingly. “I _believe_ in you, Miss Emma! _Save_ me!”

Responding to Sophia’s plight takes a moment of ingenuity on her part, no implement ready to hand that would take the place of a sword save the very heavy and potentially hazardous fire poker. Smiling to herself, she picks up her skirts and races toward the desk, casting about briefly and then brandishing one of the quill pens like a rapier. “Aha! Take that, foul beast!”

Killian growls menacingly, clutching Sophia tighter to his chest with one arm while slashing out at the air with a clawed hand. One hand still holding her skirts aside, Emma strikes at his “talons” with her “sword”. He snarls and hisses whenever she lands a “hit”. “I will _never_ surrender my precious treasure, you tin-covered maniac! Have at thee!”

From their spot at the doorway, Francine and James watch bemusedly as together Sophia and Emma find a way to combine their attacks and conquer the relatively easily-defeated dragon.

* * *

 

Just before it prepares to set the sun briefly escapes the cloud cover and gilds the treetops in a riot of sparkling drops of topaz, amber, and ruby for a truly spectacular twilight moment, and then is gone beyond the horizon. The powdery snowfall rapidly blanketing the forest and hills, while the gloaming settles gently over the Thistledown valley. Night falls on the last day of Autumn, the last day of light and warmth that will be felt for many months; and while there will be many days of accord and harmony between the lovers, as well as many nights of a deeper and more intimate passion, this day will remain locked in their memories for all time as one of the last days unspoiled by weighty destiny or sorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a very wise saying: God laughs while we make plans. I had to do a lot of soul searching, as well as writing, to realize that my initial plans for this story were more than a little ambitious. As such, I have decided to break my ideas up into a separate story; I am far from done with this universe and these characters. Thank you all for your support and your patience with the long breaks, and especially to those who nominated me for the Captain Swan Fan Fiction Awards for this year; I am truly humbled and awed by your kindness. Hopefully, the sequel will take shape much more quickly, but I do have a lot of writing and ideas to work through; please keep an eye out for the next installment, Her Cruel Mercy.


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